


Why Not Ask For More

by Paraprosdokia (ChangeableConsistency)



Series: Unconnected Phil Coulson Fics [18]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Anal Sex, Angst, BAMF Clint Barton, BAMF Phil Coulson, BDSM, Begging, Belts, Blow Jobs, Chastity Device, Clint Barton’s Abusive Childhood, Clint Barton’s stellar self esteem, Cock & Ball Torture, Cockwarming, Consent Issues, Deaf Clint Barton, Dom Phil Coulson, Exhibitionism, Feelings, Gates of Hell, Hurt/Comfort, Light Humiliation, M/M, Masochist Clint Barton, Masturbation, Mental bondage, Negotiations, Nipple Torture, Past Clint Barton/Bobbi Morse, Past Clint Barton/Tony Masters, Predicament Bondage, Punishment, Sadist Phil Coulson, Safeword Use, Spanking, Sub Clint Barton, Temperature Play, Voyeurism, Whips, fantasies, high protocol, paddles, voice restriction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:00:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 28
Words: 108,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27188995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChangeableConsistency/pseuds/Paraprosdokia
Summary: Clint is a freedom loving maverick who’s been passing as a dominant his entire life; when he gets outed as a submissive at SHIELD regulations and circumstance force him to submit to Phil, a strict high protocol dom.
Relationships: Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton/Phil Coulson, Clint Barton/Phil Coulson/Other(s)
Series: Unconnected Phil Coulson Fics [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1709944
Comments: 151
Kudos: 219
Collections: Charity Hawktion 2020





	1. Glossary

**Author's Note:**

  * For [winter_angst](https://archiveofourown.org/users/winter_angst/gifts).



> Wow! This has been quite a journey I had originally offered a 5k story but the prompt was so good that it kind of ran away with me.
> 
> I hope it hits all the right notes!
> 
> Regarding the Non-Con: Everything within the fic happens with consent and safewords in place (though Clint has… issues with using his safeword). There are very heavy themes around consent, there is reluctant consent, and there are references to past non-con.
> 
> Regarding the fandoms: Phil’s background is a mix of his MCU and 616 versions, Clint’s is mostly Fraction’s.
> 
> Please let me know if you see any typos, concrit (all comments really) are welcome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter can be skipped if you don’t have an interest in world building. The way I use these terms should be clear from context but I always find world building bits to be interesting so I’ve included them here.

— Adys (from adynamic; pronounced with a hard ‘a’: ay-die/ay-dies) have a biological aversion to submitting/being dominated and dominating/being submitted to. 

— Dominants have a biological need to dominate submissives/switches and are adverse to submitting and adynamic scenes. The word ‘dom’ is gender neutral.

— Contras (from contradynamic) are dominants/switches who need to dominate/submission from dominants/adys; submissives/switches who need to submit to/be dominated by submissives/adys; or adys who need dominants/submissives/ady adverse switches to not dominate/submit to them. They are adverse to non-contra scenes.

An equivalent example would be a heterosexual man only being attracted to lesbians and/or asexuals. 

Contras are viewed as aberrant since they need someone to act against their nature. If a non-contra is attracted to a person and they find out that person is the ‘wrong’ dynamic, continuing to find that person attractive and wishing they were the ‘right’ dynamic isn’t considered abnormal, it’s wanting to scene with someone  _ because  _ it is against their dynamic that makes a person contradynamic.

— Submissives need to submit to/be dominated by dominants/switches and are adverse to dominating and adynamic scenes. The word ‘sub’ has a lot of the same connotations as our ‘girl’.

— Switches aren’t adverse to submitting and/or dominating. They may need both, one and not the other, or neither. They may or may not be adverse to adynamic scenes. They may have preferences and be dominant, submissive or ady leaning and some decide to present as what their leaning is. Asexuals are usually switches in that they do not have a need to dominate or submit sexually and either need or aren’t adverse to non-sexual BDSM, but there are adynamic asexuals. There is nothing abnormal about a dom/sub/ady in a relationship with a switch that leans towards their dynamic. 

— Whiphands are the dominant ultimately responsible for a submissive's well being. Usually a parent/guardian or spouse. 

~~~

The majority of the population is evenly distributed between dominants and submissives. Switches are common; most people have at least one or two switches in their family. Adys are less common but most people know at least one ady. 

Most people refuse to admit that they have met a contra, much less that they are related to one. Openly admitting you are contradynamic almost never happens. They are assumed to be very rare but because of the stigma surrounding them their true number is difficult to determine. 

Now, on with the story!


	2. Chapter 2

Fuck. 

The Suit’s good, Clint will give him that.

Clint picks a building a little further away for his next jump, almost missing it, losing precious seconds as he hangs on the edge before he’s finally able to pull himself back up.

The gambit pays off, as does the gamble that the Suit still isn’t going to shoot at him; not that he’s even tried since Manila and that was three jobs ago. 

Clint’s also reasonably certain the Suit missed on purpose.

Reasonably. 

The Suit looks for another way across while Clint gives him a lazy two finger salute and a grin before taking off again, the Charlotte Sapphire— or rather, the Ashoka Sapphire, safely tucked into the pocket of his purple hoodie, itself carefully concealed beneath a black windbreaker. 

It’s said that the central gem— sometimes pendant, sometimes tag— the necklace is named for brings wisdom to the adaptable and despair to the intractable.

For Clint, it means a paycheck and, the real reason he took the job, getting to test himself against a new top of the line security system.

Getting one over on the Suit is an added bonus and he’s doubly glad he decided to come to London.

He dives and rolls behind a row of chimneys, changes direction, and makes his way to a fire escape, parkouring his way down to the alley then strolling out onto the street like it was nothing.

~~~

Phil gets to the correct roof edge just in time to see Hawkeye step down off of the dumpster lid and disappear onto the street. Phil practically flies down the fire escape but the chain holding up the ladder must be a hundred years old and is pretty much rusted in place. 

He grimaces at the red dust that sifts up to coat the Italian leather of his hand stitched loafer as he kicks the chain once, then twice; third time’s the charm as it crumbles apart and the ladder slides down in a screeching rattle.

By the time he’s out onto the street Phil knows Hawkeye is long gone but he has to try. 

There’s a teenaged submissive waiting for the bus; she has a dark complexion with short cropped hair, a shimmering silver collar with a borderless family tag and a bright yellow raincoat. She’s holding a dark red carnation the same shade as the three pomegranate pips on her tag, smelling it with a dreamy look in her deep brown eyes. 

“Excuse me, miss, did a tall, blond dom in a black windbreaker just come by here?” Phil uses the flat of his hands to sketch out someone a couple inches taller than him and a little broader— okay, a lot broader— at the shoulder.

“Oh, yes,” she sighs, “He was so handsome, with those eyes, and that mouth. He gave me this,” she twirls the flower, “Then ran off that way,” she points down the street to the right.

“Thank you!” Phil yells, already heading off in that direction, having to dodge around the bus as he does so. He bumps into a submissive boy coming from the other direction; hunched into a ragged purple hoodie, the hood is low over his eyes so that all that is visible is the light tan of his smooth chin and the smug corner of his mouth. White wires appear out from under the hood and down into the pocket where his hands are tucked, the old school punk blaring loud enough that Phil hears the chorus of “Death or Glory”.

_ —he'll die before he's sold _

“Oi! Watch it!” The boy sneers, his accent London thick as he stomps his way onto the bus behind the sub with the flower, flashing Phil the two fingers that don’t mean peace on this side of the pond. 

_ He who fucks nuns will later join the church _

Phil rolls his eyes, oh to be that young again; he finally gets around the front end of the bus. He looks at the sea of faces and swears under his breath before saying, “Get me all the CCTV footage within a mile of the Museum of London,” as the bus pulls away.

Damn. Phil really thought he had him this time, cutting off all his escape routes but the one Phil chose had been tricky since their intel only said Hawkeye was hitting a museum and not which one. 

And the agent in the chicken costume had been a stroke of genius; if it hadn’t been for blind stupid luck Phil would have ended this then and there. 

The fact that he had chosen correctly (the odds put it at only a 24.8% chance but Phil had gone with his gut) in placing the Alpha team will be his saving grace this time. 

~~~

A couple of damp hours later, God, Phil hates London, it’s like he can never get fully dry, Phil finally queues up Hawkeye as he’s coming out of the alley; he ducks under the little grocery’s awning and then comes out to flirt with the submissive at the bus stop, handing her the carnation before heading across the street in the direction she had pointed.

Phil switches to the footage from the other end of the street and feels himself turn scarlet, unsure if anger or embarrassment is winning out as he sees Hawkeye ditch the windbreaker and look directly at the CCTV camera.

Hawkeye signs, his right hand catching only air as it crosses in front of his face and then that same hand palm up fingers curved toward his chest, flipping over until his fingertips touch his left palm, a set of signs that are becoming all too familiar to Phil, who started learning to sign after that first encounter, «Missed me again,» and then he gives Phil that same cocky grin and salute he had on the rooftop, two fingers flicking forward from an imaginary hat brim, before pulling the frayed purple hood up and shrinking down into the sullen sub who had bumped into Phil. 

Phil’s breath catches and he can feel the red shift to white as all the blood drains from his face and he finds his pocket empty, his wallet missing. 

Oh, Fury’s going to love this. 

~~~

Phil’s in the Blade’s lounge, Lagavulin 16 sitting forgotten on the side table as a petite brunette submissive rests his head on Phil’s knee, his wrists crossed perfectly behind his back, Phil’s fingers running through his hair.

Matthew had caught his eye when Phil had come in, looking to drown his sorrows after getting a replacement room key and canceling all his credit cards. He’ll have to swing by the Square, SHIELD’s London HQ, on his way to the airport in the morning to get his IDs replaced. 

Thank God they won’t know why. Fury may have ribbed him about it but he won’t tell tales out of school. Phil won’t be a laughingstock, much as he deserves it. 

Rolled like a baby agent barely out of training. 

It was mortifying. 

If there’s anything Phil hates more than London damp it’s making a fool out of himself. 

He supposes it could have been worse; it could have been like Lagos. 

And the chickens. 

Damn Hawkeye, anyway. He can’t be worth all this trouble. 

But no; Fury wants him and what the Director wants, Phil gets. 

Matthew sighs, pulling Phil out of his useless introspection. He knows what he did wrong and how to not make the same mistake and he’s mature enough to take it for the object lesson it is and move on.

Mostly.

That’s where Matthew comes in. 

Several inches shorter than Phil, the demure submissive has dark soulful eyes with just the hint of laugh lines, pegging him as slightly younger than Phil’s own mid thirties. He’s Kneeling on a soft cushion, his conservative heels neatly placed off to one side, his feet, still covered by his sheer black silk stockings, a tantalizing hint of a seam at his ankles, are in a relaxed point. His black slacks are perfectly pressed and his white silk button down has the top two buttons undone to show off his SHIELD issued tag, matte silver with SHIELD’s eagle etched in black. His French cuffs have black pearlescent cufflinks with an inlaid silver scythe complementing the tiny black pearl buttons down the center of his forest green corset vest. 

Phil’s fingers itch to unbutton them slowly, one by one.

Matthew’s shoulder length waves fall in shiny layers, auburn highlights catching the candles’ glow, the strands silky beneath his fingers and Phil hums in pleasure.

There’s nothing quite like a well behaved submissive to soothe the soul.

Maybe it’s time for Phil to start thinking about getting a sub of his own, someone to wait by the door for him, to bring a submissive’s touch to his home, to beg and Kneel and hurt for him, to serve his every desire.

But then it’s so much work; easier to find submissives like Matthew, whose whiphands don’t mind loaning them out, who don’t mind— enjoy in fact, being made available to single dominants looking for a no strings attached scene. 

“Feeling better, Sir?” Matthew asks quietly, his voice has a pleasant musical lilt, Irish slightly sanded smooth from having moved to London as a wild teenager looking for adventure before settling down with a whiphand; finding both in SHIELD. 

He moves one hand to wrap his delicate fingers around Phil’s ankle, subtly offering more.

“Yes, boy, thank you,” Phil says softly; though he generally doesn’t approve of such forward behavior in his submissives, he could use the stress relief. He’s just about to invite Matthew up to his room when he’s interrupted by the person he’s been hunting for six months and he can’t think of anyone he wants to see less in that moment. 

“Well, well, well. Agent Phillip J. Coulson of SHIELD, fancy meeting you here,” Clint mocks. He had found the dom’s hotel key card in his wallet and while it had been unmarked, Clint was able to track it to the exclusive hotel. 

Such sloppiness had practically been an engraved invitation and Clint’s ready to take their little game to the next level. 

Phil’s fingers tighten involuntarily in Matthew’s hair and he makes a fetchingly vulnerable sound of distress, Phil can’t resist deliberately tightening them a little more to make him make that sound again. 

“Mr. Barton,” he says dryly, hiding his surge of adrenaline. He has got to stop letting Hawkeye get the drop on him, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Hawkeye flops down in the wingback chair to Phil’s left, big and loud and American in the small space of the Blade’s lounge, decorated to bring to mind an old school dominant’s club; fitting as that’s what the townhouse started as. Phil appreciates Hawkeye letting Phil keep his body protectively between him and Phil’s sub but that’s all he appreciates he tells himself as he studiously avoids taking in the other dom’s physique in any way more than professional curiosity. 

It’s not like Hawkeye is Phil’s type in the first place, regardless of his dynamic; as if even the brattiest sub would ever be so brash and bold. Not to mention how absurd the very idea is of a submissive doing what Hawkeye does on their own. If Hawkeye were actually a submissive his whiphand would be sitting down to negotiate with Phil, not Hawkeye. 

“It’s time me and you had a little heart to heart,” Clint says trying to ignore the submissive’s whimpers, at the way it makes his blood race to watch Coulson’s casual cruelty. 

Maybe he should call Bobbi.

No, after what happened last month he’ll drop dead before he crawls back to her again. It’s her turn to grovel and he plans on enjoying it.

Fuck, she’s going to be so jealous when she finds out it’s been SHIELD hunting him.

_ ‘Sorry, Birdie, I’ve been busy with this whole SHIELD thing. You know how it is, don’t you? Oh, that’s right, you don’t.’ _

He can hardly wait. 

“Matthew, honey, give us a few minutes alone, please?” Phil says, squeezing one more time on the ‘alone’ before finally releasing his hold. 

Matthew looks up, his eyes luminous with unshed tears in the low light, “Of course, Phil,” his voice is pure submission, but he uses Phil’s name to acknowledge his request and Phil knows Matthew will have agents covering every exit and ready to fill the room at Phil signal, “Shall I wait at the bar for you, Sir?” He asks in throaty invitation, stroking his fingers up the back of Phil’s ankle.

It's impertinent but Phil allows it, “Yes, boy, thank you.”

Matthew sits back on his heels, crosses his wrists behind his back, and brings his cheek down to rest on the top of Phil’s foot before saying, “Thank you, Sir,” waiting for Phil’s acknowledgement with a light touch of his fingertips to the back of his sub’s neck. 

Clint feels a flash of jealousy at the submissive’s full body shiver and Clint ruthlessly tamps down on the foreign feeling, rubbing the smooth spot on the back of his BTE in a soothing gesture before he can catch himself. 

That will never be him. 

Clint knows better. He’s constitutionally incapable of submitting quietly; he needs to be wrestled down, dominated into submitting. Submission has never been that easy for him and it never will be. 

Matthew stands gracefully, keeping his hands in place behind his back until he bends to pick up his heels. He gives a short bow of his head, more of a deferential nod really, then takes three steps backwards before turning to walk to the bar; his hips have a little extra sway to them and he looks back over his shoulder, winking at Coulson when Matthew catches him watching, his sly smile dropping and lowering his eyes at Coulson’s stern look. He goes to wait patiently for his dominant, chastened.

Phil knew he was letting Matthew get away with too much. Phil will have to be sure to run him through his paces tonight, it will settle him and keep him from acting out like this in the future. Just because Mathew has a SHIELD assigned whiphand is no reason to slack on his own responsibilities as a dominant.

“Return the stolen necklace now and I’ll see to it that you get a light sentence,” Phil opens with, just to see how Hawkeye will react.

He laughs and Phil wishes it were grating instead of inviting, he has to fight himself to keep his lips from curling in shared amusement. 

It’s the first time Clint’s actually gotten a good look at Coulson, outside of the stoic image on his SHIELD ID and DC driver’s license. 

Pale where Clint is golden; dark hair just beginning to thin in a short, military cut and a slightly narrow nose with a hint of a bump that says it’s been broken before, maybe more than once. His mouth is a serious line but something sparkles in his changeable grey-blue eyes that tells Clint he’s charmed in spite of himself. 

“The Brits stole it first; I just happened to repatriate it for a nominal fee. This,” he holds up Phil’s wallet between two fingers, “I stole. Sorry about that, I just wanted to know more about the dom who’s chased me across five countries.”

“Seven,” Phil corrects him with a shark-like grin and Hawkeye scowls. 

Two points to Phil. 

By Phil’s count that puts him up by one. 

“Cute kids, by the way,” Hawkeye flicks over the wallet. 

Phil catches it neatly and doesn’t bother going through it before putting it in his pocket; there will be time enough to check it out after this… Interview? Interrogation? Whatever this is, wraps up.

“Thanks, they’re my sister’s,” he says with a warning that they’re off limits.

That shouldn’t be as comforting as it is, Clint’s never had a problem scening with someone with kids and, anyway, it’s not like Clint’s  _ interested _ interested in the man; Clint likes his dominants to be loose and playful, not afraid to get a little roughed up and laugh about it afterwards, and that’s only the rare times the urge to submit gets the better of him.

If there’s anyone more straightlaced than Phil Coulson Clint has yet to meet them; he had the dominant pegged the first time he saw him nearly six months ago, suit and tie perfectly in place as he chased Clint through downtown Managua. 

Clint was supposed to be in Bogata doing his part to defund a growing fascist guerilla movement, instead he had been in Nicaragua begging for yet another one last scene with Bobbi— say what you will about the train wreck that is their relationship, they’re amazing in the dungeon together; right up until she pushes for something Clint just doesn’t have in him to give. 

He still isn’t sure how SHIELD knew he was there or how he had gotten on their radar.

He’s surprised Coulson hasn’t called in for back up but then he recalls how the dominant was with his submissive in the few minutes Clint had observed them before making his approach; reserved, in control, dominating in a way that has nothing to do with being domineering. Something innate, not something learned. 

No, this is a dom who doesn’t call on back up because he doesn’t even think of needing it, and he’s probably right.

“So why  _ have _ you been chasing me?”

“My boss thinks you’d be a good fit for SHIELD.”

“Your boss,” Hawkeye smirks, “But not you?”

“I think you’re reckless and undisciplined and it’s only a miracle that you’re still alive. You’re a danger to yourself and others.”

Clint laughs again, “You don’t hold back, do you Coulson? But,” he shrugs with an impish grin, knowing how disarming the flash of dimple is, “You’re not wrong.”

Coulson seems nonplussed at this, as if he hadn’t expected such easy agreement, and Clint ticks another tally in his mental scoresheet. By his calculations they’re even again, that smug  _ ‘seven’ _ of Coulson’s had put Clint in the hole by one; the heist, or at least the escape part, having gotten off to a rocky start and costing him his lead. 

It had been touch and go for a bit at the beginning there, peeling off to avoid the obvious undercover agent in the chicken suit had put him directly in the middle of a team of eight much more subtle agents. If it hadn’t been for that tourist turning the wrong way down a one way street Clint would have been royally fucked. The near miss may have played into Clint taking the risk of meeting Coulson like this. Clint had gotten away but snagging the agent’s wallet had only let Clint break even.

Clint’s need to win, to always come out on top, is going to cost him one of these days. 

Phil’s at a bit of a loss— and it’s not the dimple, that has nothing to do with it and it certainly doesn’t tug at anything inside Phil; this conversation isn't going the way he expected it to and he finds himself making a case for SHIELD in spite of himself, “A little structure, some support and direction, and you wouldn’t just be great, you would be the best.”

Clint huffs another laugh. 

He already is the best.

“And you think  _ you’re _ the one to give me that structure?”

Phil shakes his head, perhaps too quickly, “Not me personally; I haven’t been a handler in years.”

SHIELD cultivates wild cards and Phil’s always been too strict; it’s not that he stifles creativity, quite the opposite in fact, he believes SHIELD agents’ ingenuity in the field is one of their greatest assets, but in the office he’s as by the book as they come. It might even be said— has been said on multiple occasions, if he’s being honest— that he’s a bit of a micromanager.

These days he sticks to recruitment and logistics, which is 90% paperwork and plays to Phil’s strengths. It’s Phil’s responsibility to assign the right agents to the right handlers for the job, ensuring everyone brings out the best in each other. 

Phil is willing to allow, if just to himself, that’s likely the real reason Phil is SHIELD’s primary recruiter. He’s always been good at seeing how all the pieces fit together and getting the most out of his people. 

Clint tells himself he isn’t disappointed. He doesn’t want to work for the giant faceless agency in the first place and certainly not under the dour man before him.

Though tweaking Coulson’s slightly crooked nose at every opportunity holds a certain amount of appeal.

“No, we would set you up with someone suitable,” Sitwell’s always good with the probies, giving them space to shine while also showing them the ropes; though May, with her wicked sense of humor, might be a better fit in this case, “It would offer you a hell of a lot more security than you have now.”

“I’m not much one for being tied down,” Clint parries, the half truth falling from his mouth with practiced ease.

“I think that’s true for most of SHIELD. Not that we don’t have submissives working for us,” he says, picking up on Hawkeye’s blatant double meaning; Phil warns him, “We do and we believe that submissives are as capable as any dominant. You will be expected to respect that. We’re a progressive agency; we even hire uncollared submissives, although there are naturally some limitations on what we can allow them to do. SHIELD takes our responsibility to our subs very seriously.”

The Submissive Revolution may have happened almost thirty years ago but it’s still fairly common to find people with old school attitudes, especially when it comes to submissives in the workplace. If Hawkeye is one of those, better to know now. 

A shiver runs down Clint’s spine. It shouldn’t be an issue for him, he’s been passing for a dominant since his first DA when he was eight; even as a child he had seen how fucked submissives are compared to their dominant counterparts. 

And don’t think Clint missed the tense change from would to will. Coulson somehow realized Clint’s maybe became yes before Clint did.

“I’ll want immunity.”

Coulson nods, “That’s standard but only for those crimes you admit to.”

“Take in a lot of former criminals, do you?”

“You’d be surprised.”

“I won’t kill for you,” he says, thinking this will be the end of it. Clint’s taken a lot of flack for it over the years from his peers but there are very few lines he won’t cross. That’s one of them. He may be willing to work  _ with _ assassins but he will never  _ be _ one. 

“We won’t ask you to, Mr. Barton. Unless you have any other immediate objections, why don’t you come to my room and we can hammer out the details?”

“You’re serious?”

“Always,” Phil lies, picking up his scotch and leading them over to the bar, “Matthew, take this upstairs for me and get the room ready; pick up a new hire package on your way, and make sure there’s an 82b.”

“Yes, Sir,” Matthew says as he takes Phil’s newly programmed keycard along with the heavy antique metal key needed for the secondary original lock.

“Wait, he’s SHIELD too?”

“Everyone at the Blade is, Mr. Barton; we own and staff the building.”

So that’s why he wasn’t worried about back up. Clint wonders if he should count it as a point.

Probably, seeing as Clint had rushed in half cocked without a rip cord. 

Damn it. That puts Coulson up one again. 

“Will I be submitting to you both, Sir?” Matthew’s accent widening his vowels and burring his r’s, “Only I told Ma’am you might want me for the night and I haven’t her permission for anyone else,” he lowers his eyes; a dainty blush steals across his fair features as he peeks through his full eyelashes at Clint with obvious interest.

Phil raises his eyebrow, letting Hawkeye decide, though Phil has always preferred to scene one on one, he selfishly wants his sub’s undivided attention; it’s a common tactic to watch how a new recruit handles a submissive as a sort of litmus test.

He has a momentary image not of Matthew Kneeling for Hawkeye but of Hawkeye on his knees for Phil and Phil has to fight down the rush of embarrassed confusion at the highly inappropriate thought. He’s never thought of another dominant that way before.

He’s not contradynamic. 

He’s not. 

He’s sure of it. 

He pictures Hawkeye wrapped in rope and begging for Phil’s touch.

He  _ was  _ sure of it.

Maybe Hawkeye is just a dominant leaning switch?

_ ‘A very dominant switch,’ _ Phil thinks a little helplessly.

Maybe… maybe it’s okay because he wants— would want— Hawkeye’s  _ willing _ submission. There's nothing wrong with wishing someone was a different dynamic, right? 

God, what’s wrong with him; now is neither the time or place for a dynamic identity crisis.

For one mad second Clint pictures himself watching them, playing the part of voyeur while masking where his true desires lie, before he ruthlessly shuts the thought down, “No, thank you,” and he knows it was the correct response as tension he hadn’t noticed eases from Coulson’s frame.

“Go on then, sweetheart, we won’t be far behind you.

If you don’t mind Mr. Barton, I’d like to wrap up my negotiations with Matthew’s assigned whiphand before heading to the room.”

Clint’s eyes dart to the submissive's collar and now that he’s looking for it he can see the tag has the double border around its edge indicating a company tag and not the single line of a true whiphand. 

Coulson’s tone clearly indicates that that wasn’t a request but Clint holds out his hand in a ‘be my guest’ gesture anyway; shamelessly eavesdropping when Coulson picks up the handset of a gilded Victorian style telephone and dials a three digit number, the rotary dial clicking after each one. 

“Hello, Billie? It’s Phil.”

“Phil! Matty said he thought you might ask for him.”

“Yes, he mentioned,” Phil says dryly. Matthew is too forward by half but then beggars can’t be choosers and he is a pretty little thing; he just needs to be firmly and gently reminded of his place. 

He isn’t a bad sub, just one that likes to push boundaries; his scandalous New Collarless days are mostly behind him and he’s proof that all any submissive needs is a little stability in their lives, to settle down with the right dominant to guide them, cherish them, and protect them.

“What did you have in mind?”

“Oh, the usual; maybe a little light impact play. He’s been a little cheeky and I’ll take care of that as well.”

Clint ignores the thrill those three words stir up in him; he wishes light impact play was enough to get him into subspace. He tries not to imagine what ‘the usual’ entails and fails. 

“Nothing that will bruise. Actually, seeing as it’s you, I’ll allow them at your discretion, just don’t over do it.”

“He does mark up beautifully,” Phil smiles, remembering the last time he was in London and a long night of knotted rope and soft whimpers slowly turning into hoarse screams.

Oh, wow, the robot’s been programmed to smile; and not just smile, but smile at the thought of causing enough pain to leave bruises, or maybe more, and Clint knows that smile is going to haunt him the next time he takes himself in hand.

“Do you need a paddle?”

“I brought my own.”

His own what? His own crop maybe? Or cane? What exactly is his idea of light? Clint has a mental picture of Coulson shaking out a flogger, jacket off, tie askew, and sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He bets Coulson looks fucking amazing disheveled, that intense gaze of his focused entirely on Clint’s pleasure and pain.

_ ‘Barton, you dummy, get over yourself. You’re never going to submit for the man. He’s going to be your coworker, maybe your boss, you can never let him know the truth.’ _

“And you know his safewords and what aftercare he likes?” 

“Of course.”

Besides, Matthew is the perfect submissive and Clint… Clint is anything but. 

“I take it I won’t be seeing him until the morning?”

“Yes, he’ll be spending the night. If that’s acceptable?” There’s nothing Phil loves more than waking up to a warm and willing submissive in his arms, their body still soft and sore from yielding the night before and ready to yield again.

“Absolutely. I tell you, Phil, he always comes back to me glowing after scening with you.”

“He makes it easy, he’s a very good boy.”

Clint winces at the term and catches himself before he can rub his ear again, grateful Coulson was looking the other way. It shouldn’t hurt to hear but it does. Clint can count on one hand how many times he’s been called a good boy when it wasn’t sarcastic or belittling and each time he’s loved it even as the lie tore him apart.

Something else he’ll never be.

“Well, don’t let me keep you; and be sure to stop by next time you’re in town. I’ll set up a formal dinner, I know how much you like those.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Billie’s harem could give Victoria Hand’s a run for their money, “Thank you, Billie.”

“Good night, Phil.”

“All set?” Clint asks when Coulson hangs up the phone, as if he hadn’t just put himself through the ringer.

“Yes. Now, make no mistake Mr. Barton, SHIELD subs aren’t free use; submissives like Mathew serve at their whiphand’s pleasure,” Phil warns Hawkeye before he gets the wrong idea; SHIELD collared submissives are only required to submit to their whiphand, it being imperative due to their very nature

SHIELD doesn’t officially provide submissive services; dominants without subs of their own are expected to meet their needs either by collaborating with uncollared submissives, making arrangements with agents whose submissives enjoy the extra attention (or for those needing punishment, though it’s a mark of a SHIELD submissive that such punishments are very rare), or to make their own arrangements outside of SHIELD.

“And the submissive’s?”

“Of course!” Coulson sounds borderline offended, “We take safewords very seriously.”

That doesn’t answer Clint’s question the way Coulson thinks it does. There’s an ocean of difference between pleasure and the illusion of consent and he decides to join SHIELD to keep an eye on his fellow submissives, if nothing else. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clint’s signs are MISSED AGAIN, which Phil translates from ASL to English.
> 
> I’ve been signing off and on since I was a kid (hooray audioprocessing disorders!) but I am just barely conversational these days, so if I’ve made an error, please let me know ASAP.
> 
> FYI, when I need to brush up on my skills, I use the ASL University taught by Bill Vickers at www.lifeprint.com. It’s an amazing free program with a ton of resources. If you are interested in learning more about ASL or to pick up the basics, I highly recommend it. The lessons are well organized and comprehensive, there’s a decent sized library, and it even has a really good fingerspelling practice tool to help improve your fingerspelling reading speed. 
> 
> Okay, non-sponsored ad over. Back to the fic.


	3. Chapter 3

When they get upstairs Clint is a little surprised to see Matthew kneeling just inside the door, waiting with his knees wide, stretching the fabric of his slacks to show the line of his semi-hard cock, his toes pointed and his wrists crossed behind his back. He has his head lowered, his dark hair a curtain around his face. 

Phil lifts Matthew’s chin, directing his gaze up to Phil’s eyes, Matthew licks his pretty lips and then parts them again, knowing better than to ever fully close his mouth while in private.

“You know I can’t let that little display downstairs go unpunished don’t you?”

Clint frowns uneasily. He doesn’t like the sound of this.

Matthew blushes and looks away, bringing his eyes back to Phil’s as the fingers on his jaw dig in painfully. He softly moans as he becomes visibly harder, “Yes, Sir.”

“Ten with the paddle but first a proper Greeting.”

Jesus, he’s a hardass; there must be something wrong with Clint that he keeps entertaining fanciful thoughts of submitting for the man.

“Yes, Sir,” Matthew says as Phil steps back. He bows his head again and picks up a soft white cloth and starts to polish Phil’s spotless shoes, already cleaned after Matthew had responded to Phil’s crooked finger down in the lounge, slipping off his own shoes before cleaning Phil’s and resting his cheek against the top of the buffed leather.

“Ten seems a little harsh for a little harmless flirting, don’t you think?” 

“If you give a submissive an inch, they’ll take a mile, Mr. Barton. And he knew exactly what he was doing, didn’t you, Matthew?” Phil abruptly twists his hand in the sub’s hair, forcing his eyes up to meet Phil’s.

Matthew shudders and offers a meek, if not entirely contrite, “Yes, Sir.”

“And you know what little tolerance I have for misbehavior.”

He nods, pulling his hair in Coulson’s grip as he breathlessly says, “Yes, Sir.”

Coulson releases the submissive just as roughly as he had grabbed him, almost throwing him to the floor, which is hotter than it has any right to be. 

Matthew finishes with Phil’s shoes and sets aside the cloth, crossing his wrists behind his back he rests his cheek against Phil’s shoe and says, “Welcome home, Sir.”

“Thank you, Matthew,” Phil touches his fingers to the back of Matthew’s neck a firm acknowledgement of a job well done and Matthew sits back up on his heels, spreading his knees again while keeping his wrists behind his back, his eyes shining with desire, “Attend to Mr. Barton and then you may bring the wooden paddle and Kneel by my chair,” Matthew winces, having obviously hoped for Phil’s padded leather paddle instead; but he knows that one is for pleasure, not punishment, “You can set out the gates and the clamps while you're at it.”

“Thank you, Sir,” Matthew says, his voice a mix of anticipation and dread. 

Clint wants to object but can’t see a way to do so gracefully and while that’s never stopped him from just barreling through any given situation in the past, he doesn’t want to start things out with SHIELD on the wrong foot.

 _‘Or wronger foot,’_ Clint thinks, remembering a few of his and Coulson’s previous encounters. 

To be fair to Clint, he hadn’t known the truck was filled with chickens.

Coulson had looked hilarious covered in feathers; Clint had it as his home screen until it was time to ditch that phone. 

Matthew is quicker with Clint’s steel toed boots than he was Coulson’s loafers, though he’s by no means perfunctory, seeming to enjoy the task or, if not the task itself, the service and Clint feels something twist inside himself and he hides his revulsion. 

Because that’s what it is. 

Not envy.

When Matthew’s done he crosses his wrists behind his back again. He doesn’t rest his cheek on Clint’s foot but rather a few inches away, “Welcome to our home, Sir.”

There’s an awkward silence and Clint finally blurts out, “Er, thank you, Matthew?”

That must be good enough because the submissive says, “Thank _you,_ Sir.”

Phil frowns at Matthew’s cheek, but is more taken in by the fact that Hawkeye has obviously never been with a classically trained submissive and Phil makes a mental note to introduce him to Hand; she’s even more of a traditionalist than Phil and unlike Phil she likes to share. 

Though really it’s more showing off than sharing; not that Phil can blame her, if Phil had a submissive as well trained as any in Hand’s harem he would be tempted to show them off himself. 

Matthew stands, still keeping his wrists behind him and Clint admires the core strength that it takes to make it look so fluid, “May I offer you a drink, Sir?”

“Coffee?” Clint asks without much hope; it will probably be that awful instant shit he’s found to be ubiquitous in English hotels but he needs the caffeine for this and tea isn’t going to cut it. 

Besides, even a bad cup of coffee is still coffee. 

“Yes, Sir,” Matthew hesitates a little and his lilt becomes more pronounced as he apologizes, “It will take a couple minutes and I’ll need to grind the beans, if that’s acceptable, Sir?”

All the ‘Sir’s are getting on Clint’s nerves but that’s washed away by the promise of real coffee and Matthew is now officially his favorite person, sorry Tash, “That will be _awesome_. Thank you again, Matthew.”

“It’s my pleasure, Sir,” his tone inviting Clint to ask what else he might find pleasurable as he sways close enough for Clint to feel his body heat.

“Matthew!” Coulson snaps, “That’s twenty. Now behave.”

Matthew’s breath catches, “Yes, Sir. I’m sorry, Sir,” he says sincerely, bowing his head and then taking three steps back from Clint before turning to go to the bedroom.

Phil isn’t sure what’s gotten into Matthew, he’s usually so much better behaved. He thinks Hawkeye might be bringing out the brat in him; he seems like the type who prefers a brazen, mouthy sub. His dominance rolls off him in effortless waves but Phil’s willing to bet he’s a kitten in the dungeon and lets his submissives walk all over him. 

Well, to each his own, even if Phil has personally never seen the appeal of brat taming. 

“Now, wait one fucking min—,” Hawkeye starts but Phil stops him with a raised hand, his objection leading Phil to think his assessment is correct.

“Matthew‘s been warned about his flirting before, Mr. Barton; you may be a pushover but what submissives need, what they crave, really, is a firm hand.”

“Not all subs,” Hawkeye practically growls and Phil knows he should back down, that his primal instincts have him challenging the other dominant when he needs to be courting him, but he can’t help himself.

“In my experience the ones who balk are the ones who need it the most; how many submissives have you had under your whip, Mr. Barton?” He asks sharply.

“This was a mistake,” Clint says, his shoulders dropping, and he’s waiting for Coulson to jump him as he turns to go but Coulson surprises Clint, stopping him with a light touch on his shoulder, Coulson’s fingers warm and sure but not demanding. Pleading almost. 

Damn it, Phil had known he was going too far. Paradoxically, by stepping away from the confrontation Hawkeye has shown himself to be the stronger dom, that he has better control of his dominance than Phil. Phil usually has more self-restraint than this but something about Hawkeye makes him feel like he’s being baited. He knows that’s not fair and reigns himself in, “Please, wait Mr. Barton, I meant no offense. The mistake was mine. I shouldn’t have implied you haven’t earned your whip. I’m sure our experiences have simply been different; and different is something SHIELD prizes. We could use your perspective. Stay?”

Hawkeye’s penetrating gaze has Phil tilting his head slightly forward and to the side, acknowledging a worthy rival or, preferably, ally and Phil gives more ground as a peace offering, “Please?” 

Clint returns the nod, internally rolling his eyes at the posturing and not afraid to show it, and then takes a moment to look around the suite as he cools his temper; _‘ones who balk’_ his lily white ass. 

The room is larger than he expected, with space for a small sofa and coffee table, a desk, and a couple of those same leather wingback chairs from downstairs. Between the chairs is a lamp bathing a thick packet of paperwork laying on a medium sized round table in light bright enough to read in, as opposed to the atmospheric ambient light of the rest of the room. 

Matthew opens the bedroom door and when he turns on a light Clint can make out the foot of a four poster bed in dark wood with strategically placed hardpoints and he turns away from the sight before his dick gets any ideas. 

He’s not attracted to Coulson, damn it. If anything the dom pushes his buttons and raises his hackles. It’s a good thing he _isn’t_ going to be Clint’s handler, assuming Clint still wants to sign up by the time the night is through. 

Phil takes a seat and gestures to the other one, “Please, take your time reading through the contract; as soon as your coffee is ready I’ll give Matthew his spanking and then we can get down to brass tacks.”

Hawkeye frowns a bit at the mention of Matthew’s punishment and Phil debates on putting this off, the dominant is obviously more sensitive that Phil had given him credit for if he’s still concerned for Matthew’s well being. 

While Phil does prefer to do this sort of thing without an audience and he tries to ensure his submissive has had enough time to reflect on their punishment, Matthew is a good boy at heart and he knows the sub will take the correction with all due consideration. It would be cruel to make him wait any longer and maybe it will be good for Hawkeye to see the benefit of properly applied discipline.

He wonders if Matthew did it on purpose; he’s head of Western Europe’s HR and is sharp as a tack. Phil doesn’t like the feeling of being manipulated.

Matthew peeks his head out the door and asks, “Cream or sugar, Sir?”

“Black, please. Thanks again; you’re a fucking angel.”

“You’re _very_ welcome, Sir.”

“Matthew,” Phil warns and Matthew gives him an apologetic look, as if he can’t help himself from responding to Hawkeye’s flirtations. 

Honestly it’s a little cruel of Hawkeye to keep provoking him; maybe he’s actually as much of a sadist as Phil?

No, he doesn’t seem to be intentionally seducing Phil’s submissive, and it doesn’t appear to be any sort of power play either or he would be watching Phil for his reactions. No, it seems almost subconscious, as if Hawkeye’s barely keeping his dominance in check, or that he's so self assured that he doesn’t see the need to. Phil’s not sure when he’s met anyone as naturally dominant as Hawkeye. 

No wonder Hawkeye doesn’t think much of punishment, his submissives probably fall all over themselves to obey his every whim. 

Less kitten and more lion; king of his domain. 

Phil’s willing to bet he’s never had to give any of his submissives more than a slap on the wrist or a stern lecture to keep them in line or give them the release they need.

Even he wouldn’t want Hawkeye’s disappointed voice turned on him; it’s likely devastating even if you aren’t submissive. 

Hawkeye is still reading when Matthew brings out the French press and a cup, the electric kettle having come to temperature within a couple minutes and it only taking a couple more for the coffee to brew. Matthew sets the press and cup on the table and goes to his knees. He bows his head prettily and asks, “May I pour for you, Sir?”

“What? Yeah, sure,” Clint says, without taking his eyes off the documents. The contract is mostly boilerplate but there are definitely a few sections he’s going to have a lawyer go over. Murdock owes him anyway after that Black Sky thing last fall. The guy may be blind but Clint would swear that sometimes he sees clearer than Clint. 

Besides, he’s the only lawyer Clint knows. 

At least, the only one still talking to him. 

That thing with Jen had ended… poorly. 

Like most of Clint’s relationships. 

Okay, like _all_ of Clint’s relationships. 

Hawkeye may be missing out but Phil watches Matthew appreciatively as he shows off his Lausanne finishing school training, pressing, pouring, then bowing low, balancing the saucer on his palms, holding it higher than his head and even with the chair’s arms, “Your coffee, Sir?”

“Thanks, Ma—,” Hawkeye frowns as he takes the cup and saucer, though Phil can’t see any reason to critique the submissive, his form is perfect. Hawkeye seems to shake it off so it must not be important enough to bring to Phil’s notice, “Thank you, Matthew.”

“Thank you, Sir,” he says, bring his hands to cross behind his back in what Clint now understands is a default position; Clint swallows down a shudder at the willing helplessness of the position and swears to himself he would hate it, even as another part calls him out on the lie.

No. No, give him cuffs and chains or rope any day over that.

Matthew stands, takes three steps backwards, and then turns to walk into the bedroom; when he comes out he has Hawkeye’s full attention. Phil’s bamboo paddle isn’t the harshest implements he owns but it is the most painful one he’s used on Matthew and there’s a bit of trepidation to his step as he approaches and Kneels on the cushion next to Phil. He bows and then kisses the paddle’s handle before Offering it on the flat of his hands, echoing his Offering of coffee to Hawkeye. 

“Strip from the waist down, then up and over, sweetheart.”

“Yes, Sir,” Matthew says, flowing to his feet. He turns as he unbuttons and unzips his slacks, then bends at the waist as he pushes them down, revealing lacy boxer briefs the same shade of green as his corset. The tops of his stockings are in the same lace, in contrast to the sheer black of the silk, and are connected to the briefs with green satin garters.

Phil runs his thumb up the seam of Matthew’s right leg starting below his knee, Phil’s fingers caressing Matthew’s thigh as Phil follows the straight line up until he’s able to unclip the garter, and then Matthew’s left leg gets the same treatment. 

“Stand and turn.”

He does so, stepping out of his pants. Phil brushes his fingers over Matthew’s left knee and then strokes his hand up his thigh again, this time digging in his fingers and getting a soft, whimper out of Matthew, his cock going from half hard to insistently pressing against its lace cage. Phil unclips the front garter and repeats his actions with the right. He taps his own right knee, Matthew lifts his left foot and rests it delicately in place and Phil scratches his blunt nails down Matthew’s leg as he pulls down Matthew’s stocking, the corner of Phil’s lip hinting at a smile as Matthew moans quietly.

Phil raps the top of Matthew’s foot with the back of his knuckles and drops his stocking onto the cushion by Phil’s feet. He raises an eyebrow in warning when Matthew starts to lift his right foot without permission. 

Matthew needs to be reminded of his place more than Phil thought; Phil will be sure to bring up regular maintenance spankings with Billie in the morning, it’s something a sub with Matthew’s brat-like tendencies would benefit from. 

Matthew lowers his eyes, chastened, and waits for Phil to invite his foot up. This time Phil uses both hands, leaving trails of red lines from his nails as he pulls down Matthew’s stocking and Matthew whispers, _“Sir,”_ in appreciation.

“Hold your shirt up for me, honey,” Phil orders and Matthew gathers the white silk tails, holding them up above his waist and showing how excited he really is. Phil hooks his thumbs into the waistband of Matthew’s boxers and drags them down, Matthew’s hard cock bouncing as it’s freed and Phil takes a moment to inhale up the length of Matthew’s hard cock smelling warm skin and a hint of the French perfume Billie dresses her subs in. 

“Oh, Sir,” Matthew moans.

Phil lets the lacy boxers pool around Mathews ankles and takes his smooth balls in one hand, licking his lips as he prepares to take one into his mouth, squeezing them hard first and startled when Matthew’s moan is echoed by Hawkeye.

Good God, Phil had completely forgotten the man was there, he had been so silent and still as Phil became absorbed in his submissive. He looks over and then quickly back to Matthew, Hawkeye's eyes are dark and his mouth open and soft, a flush lighting up his golden tan and Phil refuses to think of the other dominant as beautiful, though that’s what he is.

“Fold your clothes and put them on the cushion, then assume the position,” and if Phil’s voice it’s a little rough it’s because of what Matthew is doing to him, not Hawkeye. Obviously. 

This is not what Clint’s signed up for, but he can’t look away. Clint’s never been much one for public scenes, they’re always too staged, too fake, but this— he never thought he could be into something as… decadent as this.

Matthew carefully folds his pants and sets them on the kneeling cushion, then folds his lacy boxer briefs and sets them on top of his pants, followed by neaty laying his stockings on top of his underwear. Clint wants to look away but finds he can’t. Matthew’s hard cock peekaboos through his shirt tails where they billow out from under his corset vest. He’s completely hairless from the waist down, likely from the neck down, and Clint holds back a shiver at the thought of keeping himself bare for a dominant that way.

Matthew positions himself over Coulson’s legs, making the normally awkward movement look natural and puts his palms on the soft carpet. He grins up at Clint when Phil’s not looking but there’s a tightness there that almost has Clint interfering. 

But no, neither one of them would want that and Matthew has his safeword if he needs it; Coulson made a point about SHIELD honoring them and, even if he doesn’t really believe Coulson (safewords are at best a polite fiction in Clint’s experience), Clint’s here to back it up. Clint finishes his coffee and pours the second cup from the press before going back to the paperwork, trying to distract himself from what’s to come. 

Because here’s the thing about Clint: he may make a claim to be a rough and ready anything goes submissive who submits on his own terms or not at all but he is the biggest fucking baby when it comes to being punished; not that he’s ever stuck around with any one dominant long enough to really find out. 

He can take a beating for fun any day all day but the second there’s that… Call it a sense of being a disappointment and he crumbles. 

He knows he’s a bad sub; he doesn’t need any reinforcement. 

“Sir,” Matthew asks hesitantly, “May I have your hand first?”

From the corner of his eye Clint watches as Coulson flips up the back of Matthew’s shirt and he gently rubs the pale globes he’s exposed with a broad hand, “I’m not sure how much of a punishment it would be with a warm up.”

“I’ll be good, I promise, Sir. I’m sorry for flirting without permission.”

“You say that but you deliberately flirted with Mr. Barton _after_ you knew you were going to be punished for flirting with me down in the bar. If I hadn’t been here to catch you, would you have confessed? Or were you trying to get punished? You know the only thing I dislike more than cheek is manipulation.”

Matthew’s lip is trembling by the time Coulson is through reading him the riot act, his brogue thick with emotion, “I’m sorry, Sir, I didn’t mean to provoke you; leastwise not the second time. I wasn’t thinking when I flirted with Mr. Barton. I promise, Sir, it just happened.”

Clint goes over his actions but can’t pinpoint anything he did to encourage Matthews interest. Not that that helps with the guilt pricking at him. He wants to leave, take the packet and go, but part of him feels like he needs to witness this as some sort of penance for getting Matthew in trouble. 

Well, further into trouble. 

“Hmm,” Phil considers Matthew’s pleas. He believes the boy, having seen Hawkeye’s charm in action, the way his voice curls around the words every time he thanks Matthew, some sort of promise of both respect and protection given with unconscious ease but, still, this is a punishment. He decides to leave it up to the submissive, if only to see if he’ll make the right choice. If he still wants Phil’s hand first, Phil will give it to him but he won’t be able to help feeling a little disappointed in the sub, “Do _you_ think you deserve a warm up?”

The paper under Clint’s fingers crinkles as he tightens his fingers, anxiously waiting to hear Matthew’s response. He wonders if Matthew will say yes. He wonders if _he’d_ say yes. And if Clint did— Matthew does, Clint wonders if Coulson will give in to the pretty submissive’s pleas as a darker park of Clint hopes he doesn’t. 

After a tense beat Matthew loses some of his tension and he shakes his head.

“Matthew,” Phil warns him, he knows Phil expects him to answer verbally.

“N… no, Sir. I don’t de— I don’t,” Clint wonders if there’s something wrong with his hearing aids but, no, they’re still picking up the soft murmur of traffic outside, Matthew’s just gone inaudible, his mouth moving but making no sound. 

“Speak up, boy,” Coulson’s tone is sharp and deep, like the crack of a whip.

Fuck, did he think Coulson was a hard ass before? Maybe the man really is a robot.

Clint can barely hear Matthew’s whispered, “I don’t deserve a warm up, Sir,” but surprisingly it’s good enough for Coulson; though Clint wonders if it has more to do with Matthew’s softly falling tears. 

Maybe the man has a heart after all. 

“Good boy. Keep count, now; I won’t make you start over if you make a mistake this time but I want you to stay present for all of them.”

“Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

The first slap of the paddle sounds almost like a gunshot and Clint jumps, he hadn’t expected Coulson to just go for it like that; he thinks (hopes) it goes unnoticed as Matthew shouts, “Ah! Ow! Ow. One. That’s one, Sir,” he squeezes his eyes shut, “Thank you, Sir.”

Clint’s ready for it this time, though he stares resolutely at the page in front of him, the words swimming and meaningless.

“Ow!” Matthew shouts and then pants a couple times before saying, “Two, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

He barely finishes speaking when Coulson gives him a third.

“Ah! Three, Sir,” he goes inaudible again when thanking Phil.

“You can do better than that, Matthew,” Coulson chides and Clint glowers, wanting to punch him. Can’t he see that his sub is fucking trying?

“Thank you, Sir,” it’s barely past his lips when Coulson swats him again. 

“Agh! Four, Sir!,” he sobs, “Thank you, Sir!” Which is swiftly followed by, “Aah! Five, Sir, thank you, Sir!” And even a quicker, “AHH-six-Sir-thank-you-Sir!” 

Clint realizes Matthew’s trying to get it over with as fast as possible and Clint finds himself rooting for the sub even more, feeling a sense of kinship he rarely lets himself feel with another submissive. 

“AH! Ah! SevenSirthankyouSir!” 

Both Matthew and Clint are braced for the next one, but it doesn’t come, instead Coulson rubs Matthew flushed cheeks and murmurs soothing sounds until he relaxes and it almost breaks Clint, part of him wanting to beg for something he’s never been worthy of, “Shh, now, sweetheart, let’s slow down. You’re doing so good for me; you can do this. I know you can.”

“Y...yes, Sir,” Matthew says as his panting eases, “Thank you, Sir.”

“There you are,” Phil says and then swats him again. He’s using enough force that there will be some bruising but nothing that won’t heal in a couple days.

“Oh! Oh, I— Sir! Sir, please,” Matthew begs, “I lost track, I’m sorry, Sir.”

Phil rubs the sting away again and says, “That was eight.”

Matthew sighs in relief, and Phil is so proud of him for how well he’s taking this; he’ll have to be sure to let Billie know when he reports on Matthew’s behavior.

“Eight, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

Phil glances over to Hawkeye; not forgotten, exactly, but more off to the side in Phil’s mind as he concentrates in giving his sub what he needs and this is why Phil prefers to scene one on one, all of his focus goes to his submissive. 

He’s surprised to see Hawkeye’s let the packet slide into his lap, though not surprised by the erection it fails to hide, Matthew does suffer beautifully. Hawkeye is white-knuckling the armrests like he’s afraid he’s going to leap out of the chair and tear the paddle away from Phil.

Phil debates for a moment of letting Hawkeye give Matthew the second set of ten, it was Hawkeye that Matthew had flirted with after all, but in his heart he knows he’s a selfish man and though it would not only show Phil the type of dominant Hawkeye really is, and likely draw him in more to SHIELD, Phil can’t make himself do it.

“NIIIINE… Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

Phil gives him a beat before spanking him again. 

“Aahh. Ten. Ten, Sir. Please. Please, no more, please? I’ve learned my lesson, I have, please?”

Clint should leave. This is too much. He can’t— He can’t sit here and watch this. Hear this. _Feel_ this. He’s never had a spanking like this. Never even seen one like it. It’s too intimate. It makes him hot and cold and a shiver races down his spine. He wants to stop it or take it or run away or run to and it’s all getting mixed up in his head. 

What the _fuck_ is happening to him?

Phil sighs. He’d like to stop, Mathews pleas are so sweet, but he would be doing a disservice to both Matthew and Billie if he doesn’t stand his ground. 

Clint licks his lips and holds his breath as he waits to see what Coulson does. 

Huh. There’s a shift in Hawkeye’s body language, something Phil can’t pinpoint that has him suddenly asking, “Would you like to switch places, Mr. Barton?”

Matthew moans and looks up at Clint, begging with his eyes, as aware as Phil that any punishment coming from Hawkeye would be laughably gentle, but Phil knows he’s judged right when Barton goes chalk white before biting out, “No.”

Clint swears he nearly has a heart attack, thinking that somehow, some way, Coulson has figured out Clint’s secret and then he catches his breath and realizes Coulson is offering to let Clint spank Matthew, not take his place. He forces himself to say through gritted teeth, “Thank you.”

Now that Hawkeye’s admitted that he doesn’t want to take over Phil is assured he will keep his place until Matthew’s punishment is complete. Phil doesn’t bother holding back his smug smile, then sobers for his submissive’s sake, “Ten more, Matthew. You can do it.”

Matthew whimpers and shakes his head.

“Matthew!” Phil snaps, not in any real anger, but he needs to pull Matthew back out of his head and into the moment; the reprimand in his voice is enough and Matthew’s fingers stop clawing into the carpet as he relaxes his body.

“Yes, Sir,” he sniffs, “Thank you, Sir.”

Clint’s breath catches and he closes his eyes, which means he doesn’t see it, just hears it as Matthew’s cries become more desperate.

“NO! Sorry, Sir. Eleven. Th-thank you, Sir,” is followed by another sharp cry and a low moan and Clint feels Matthew staring at him. Clint opens his eyes to see Matthew silently begging him to intervene and he squeezes the armrest so tightly they creak. Clint’s eyes flick to Coulson’s and he flinches away from the mix of determination and compassion he sees there. 

He had expected the first but is floored by the second. He licks his lips and gives Matthew an encouraging smile.

Hawkeye really is beautiful with dark blue eyes bordering on violet, his Cupid’s bow lips are full and pink and his cheeks, one dimpled, one smooth are flushed; he looks two seconds away from grabbing the paddle and snapping it in two and Phil wonders if the dom has ever really disciplined a submissive. It’s as if he doesn’t understand how much they need it, so much so it’s an indelible part of their DNA; punishing a sub isn’t just about correcting poor behavior but giving them a sense of their place, showing them structure and security they can rely on, as well as a release. Once the punishment is over, all can be forgiven and what most submissives need more than anything is to know that they will always be cherished, even when they’ve misbehaved. 

Phil snaps his attention back to Matthew, feeling guilty embarrassment for his distraction, for it hadn’t been Matthew he pictured in his arms, kissing away his tears and holding him close, showing with words and touch that he’s cared for.

“Twelve, Sir,” Matthew says, closing his eyes as he sobs and Clint thinks he has no right to look so good while he cries; Clint’s face always becomes a mess, his skin turning a blotchy red, his nose swelling, and his eyes going bloodshot. Meanwhile Matthew looks like a classical painting, his dark hair falling around his face, lips red and pouting, a light blush across his cheeks and the bridge of his elfin nose, individual crystalline tears slip from the corners of his big brown eyes. He looks at Clint and seems to take strength from his witness; Matthew swallows and says, “Thank you, Sir.”

The next one has him moving, clawing at the carpet as he tries to pull away and Phil places a firm hand on his shoulder bringing him back in place, rubbing the smooth grain of the paddle against Matthew’s rosy cheeks as he waits, long enough for Phil to start to feel concerned when he whispers, “Thirteen, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

He tries to scramble away with the fourteenth as well, one hand coming back to try and protect his throbbing backside and Phil takes his arm and holds it behind his back, keeping his ass free and forestalling any further attempts to escape. Matthew twists about fruitlessly, his hair becoming disarrayed before seeming to collapse. Phil doesn’t reprimand him, knowing that sometimes what a submissive needs most is something to push against. 

Clint is nearly out of his chair when he hears a mumbled, “Fourteen, Sir. Thank you, Sir,” then as the paddle lands, “No-no-no, please no!” 

Matthew bucks in Coulson’s arms but Coulson holds him fast; he isn’t rigid, allowing the sub enough leeway that he won’t hurt himself in his struggle, but he is implacable, “Fifteen! Please, Sir, no more!”

Coulson doesn’t respond, his patience as deep as the ocean.

Matthew sobs, sounding defeated, “Thank you, Sir.”

“Good boy.”

Oh, fuck; Clint would give just about anything to hear that directed to himself like that. He wants more than anything to beg to trade places with the other sub, even as he knows it’s madness.

“Ah!!”

Phil gives Matthew a chance to catch his breath before prompting, “Sixteen.”

The sub shakes his head and Phil warns him, “Do I need to add another ten?”

“No! Please, no! Sixteen, Sir. Sixteen.”

 _“Matthew,”_ Phil says, his patience growing thin, “Don’t make this any harder on yourself, sweetheart.”

Matthew whimpers at the light tap of the paddle, and as if drawn out of a deep well says, “Thank you, Sir.”

Phil smiles, knowing that Matthew’s close to breaking, close to reaching that release that all submissives need from time to time, and he’s even more beautiful in this moment before his complete submission.

Clint looks away from the expression on Coulson's face. No, not a robot after all, just a tried and true sadist, for all his civilized trappings Clint recognizes the primal beast lurking under Coulson’s surface, the kind that gets the most pleasure from seeing someone helplessly under their control in pain. 

Clint thinks he might hate the man a little. 

That has to be what he’s feeling. 

Phil brings down the paddle and can feel his smile of satisfaction deepen; he had worried that he wouldn’t be able to get Matthew all the way there with only twenty, but now he is sure of it as it takes all of his considerable skill to keep Matthew on his lap, “No! Fuck, no! No more, please? Please stop, Sir.”

For a second it seems like Hawkeye is going to stand and Phil resents the distraction. He forces the dominant back into the chair with the heat of his glare. 

Something thrills in Clint as he obeys the silent order. 

Satisfied Hawkeye won’t move again until they're finished, Phil puts the other dom out of his mind as he comforts his struggling submissive, letting Matthew wear himself out. Finally he seems to melt into Phil’s lap and Phil lets go of his arm at feeling the compliance in his submissive’s body. Mathew drops his arm and wraps his fingers around Phil’s ankle.

“Seventeen,” Phil says softly, pleased with Matthew’s show of submission.

Matthew sniffs and repeats, just as softly, “Seventeen, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

Matthew doesn’t realize it in his highly emotional state but Phil eases back on the strength of the next strike and he knows he’s judged it correctly when Matthew moans and rolls his hard cock against Phil’s thigh, “Oh...oh, _Sir._ Eighteen. Thank you, Sir.”

The next one is just as good, if not better and Mathew moans louder, “Oh, yes, please, Sir, Nineteen. Thank you, Sir.”

He’s moving with the spanking instead of against it now, his breath catching not from fear or pain, but pleasure; he knows Phil will give him everything he needs, “Twenty. Twenty, Sir, Twenty. Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

“One more for swearing,” Phil says and the unexpectedly hard smack startles a scream of pleasure and pain from his submissive.

Matthew is a sobbing mess, saying, “Thank you, thank you, Sir,” over and over as Phil grabs his hair and forces him up until he’s straddling Phil’s legs, he grinds against Phil as Phil takes his mouth in a kiss more punishing than anything that came before.

Matthew is like liquid in his arms, seeping into all his cracks and smoothing out his rough edges. The kiss gentles and Phil stops pulling Matthew’s hair, stroking it instead. The kiss comes to a natural ebb and Phil asks, “What did you do to earn your punishment?”

“I flirted without permission, Sir. I’m sorry, it won’t happen again.”

Phil looks into his rich chocolate eyes and sees the sincerity there and says, “You’re such a good boy, Matthew; you took that so well. I’m proud of you and I forgive you.”

Matthew rests his cheek on Phil’s shoulder with a sigh, all is right in his world once more.

Clint’s frozen in place or he would be running out the door but he must make a sound or something because Coulson looks at him with those deep, too knowing, stormy eyes and gives him a gentle smile, so at odds from his earlier satisfaction, full of pride for his submissive. 

Clint swallows, trembling now. 

“Go kneel on the bed,” and for a second Clint thinks Coulson is talking to him, and for a second he wants to obey, but Coulson continues, “Wait for me while I finish up with Mr. Barton.”

“Shall I strip, Sir?”

“No,” Phil practically growls as he runs his thumbnail up along those tiny black buttons, “These are mine, I don’t want you touching them. 

_Mine._ Clint shivers and refuses to meet Coulson’s eyes as he takes the paperwork, ignoring his rock hard cock as he stands and says, “I’m going to have someone look over these. I’ll be in touch,” and leaves without a backwards glance, sure that to do so would turn him into a pillar of salt. 

Phil watches Hawkeye bolt over Matthew’s shoulder and knows he didn’t just win this round. 

He _dominated._

He pushes Matthew to the ground; he feels like celebrating. 


	4. Chapter 4

Hawkeye— Agent Barton— is even better in the field than Phil’s projections had estimated. 

He gets along well with every handler Phil’s paired him with, finding ways to compliment a variety of different styles. Instead of assigning him to someone permanently he’s got Barton in the hot seat, on call for whatever mission needs his expertise or to fill out a team last minute. 

Most of all Barton’s become their retrieval specialist, going in after things go pear shaped and seamlessly integrating with the team on the ground to get everyone out alive with an over a 98.4% success rate, achieving the initial objective 47.8% of the time and an 17.3% rate of getting SHIELD more than initial intel indicated was available. 

And he does it all without taking a single life and minimal collateral damage. 

Barton has become SHIELD’s unofficial troubleshooter in the space of a month, effortlessly taking the lead when he’s the senior agent on the ground, supporting the handler as an effective second in command if not.

Actually, more of a parallel command. 

Barton’s a force all of his own.

He doesn’t fall into the typical dominant posturing, with his size, skill, and reputation it would have been no contest, and he manages to earn the respect of every agent on campus before his first week is up. 

He’s also an inveterate flirt and more than a few of SHIELD’s submissives and one of their switches have asked to contract with him, with each denial Barton leaves them a little more heartbroken and a little more in love.

And their whiphands haven’t even minded, saying that they get it; several have approached Barton directly asking him to scene with their subs just for the experience of watching a master at work. 

It isn’t that Barton tries to be the most confident dominant in the room, he just _is_.

And, God, that lightning quick adaptability that had been infuriating while on his trail is mesmerizing to watch unfold from the other side, half the time it’s all Phil can do to hold on and enjoy the ride. 

His reports on the other hand, leave something to be desired. 

It’s never so bad that Phil can reasonably ask him to redo them but Barton takes it right up to that line. They’re legible, technically, it’s just like his grandmother’s handwriting, tall and narrow and slanted, suited for a fountain pen or quill (actually, Phil’s 71.3% certain that exactly what Barton’s using, Phil’s still waiting to hear back from the lab). 

And he’s never seen so many embellishments and tangents in his life, though they all usually come around to make a point and to do it well. Phil didn’t want to believe buying wholesale giraffes would have anything to do with a Madripoorian prison break but he had been wrong. He has to hand it to the dom, he’s a gifted storyteller. 

Worst of all are the doodles in the margins.

They may be entertaining as all hell but that’s irrelevant. 

And if a form says blue ink, it means blue ink for a reason. The machine that scans the reports and classifies them is sensitive. 

Except for one shade of purple, of course; though how Barton found that out is beyond Phil.

Phil’s got his hackles up already because the one dominant on campus who Barton _doesn’t_ seem to get along with is Phil. 

With Barton’s unique position under Phil’s command, more often than not they are collaborating with each other and Phil finds it surprisingly easy to do so; their wildly different approaches tending to complement one another in spite of the way their personalities clash. 

Almost six weeks and Barton’s made himself such a fixture that Phil wonders what they ever did without him even while the dom seems to do everything he can to drive Phil out of his mind. 

The worrying part is Phil’s growing to like it. 

He refuses to dwell on how much of his conflicted feelings come from the completely inappropriate thoughts Phil keeps having about the dominant.

Phil is a professional damn it and he’s going to act like it. 

~~~

The last several weeks have been the most fulfilling of Clint’s entire fucking life.

Other than the little curl of what he refuses to call fear and doesn’t dare label as desire when he sees Coulson.

Sometimes he thinks about what it might be like, to be truly free. To have all this and submission too.

But even as a child he knew they were different sides of the same coin and you can only ever see one side at a time. 

He can be free to submit or he can be free but he will never have both and the latter is infinitely more precious to him.

After that display in London Clint had been sure he wasn’t going to last a week but the opportunity on offer had been too good to pass up; and, anyway, he can walk away at any time so there’s no harm in seeing what it’s like to not be on his own for once, to maybe, _maybe,_ trust someone other than Tasha to have his six.

For all Coulson’s talk about equal opportunity and zero tolerance, Clint has still hadn’t expected the submissives at SHIELD to be so… free. 

Clint had been born at the height of the Submissive Revolution but you wouldn’t have known to look at his mom. Not that they had fancy manners like Coulson grew up with but then Clint wasn’t surprised when, having hacked SHIELD’s personnel files, he found out Coulson’d been born with a silver spoon in his mouth, one of his mothers a Fortune 500 CEO of a global insurance company, the other a trust fund baby from old, _old_ money.

The Bartons, on the other hand, had been dirt poor; Mom working side by side with Dad at the butcher’s shop, barely making ends meet— though some how there was always money for Dad’s fucking booze.

Just because Mom worked as hard as Dad, twice as hard, really, that didn’t excuse her from her ‘subly duties’ at home, on her knees day and night, keeping their two room hovel and two boys clean, supper on the table by six, living off the table scraps Dad fed her, and never letting his hand go without a beer (or the belt, one of the two).

Clint knew from before he could walk that being a sub means nothing but trouble and learned early on to be just as mean and tough as his brother to avoid being lumped in with the submissive kids. 

When it was time for his first Dynamic Assessment, he had pulled Barney’s out of a box of old report cards and school projects Mom had kept out of some fucked up sense of sentimentality and he studied it like he’d never studied for any test before, picking up not only what Barney had written but how he wrote it. 

DA’s are always essay form, a carry over from the late 1800s when formal testing came into practice along with compulsory education. Schooling for submissives went from being only for the very rich to something even poor subs were expected to complete, more because schools became a pipeline for them to find a whiphand of their own than out of any thought that submissives would ever need to know domly things like math and reading. 

Even today, the conservative party is pushing to drop the federal requirements for submissives’ education, claiming it as both a waste of funding and ‘dangerous to the sanctity of family values’ and that it should be the whiphand’s choice whether or not to allow their submissives to be exposed to the ‘moral turpitudes’ of modern education. Though it’s cost prohibitive, most conservative families opt for private schools and many who can’t afford it choose to homeschool instead.

For submissives who don’t trade the borderless tag of a family collar for the single outlined tag of a spouse right out of high school, many seek a whiphand through college or the workforce, though arranged collarings aren’t uncommon among more traditional families. 

After World War II most middle class submissives left their jobs and returned home to their whiphands, back from overseas and eager to return to normal life, but some who had spent the years of the war not only working but enjoying the freedom of being out from under the lash of their whiphand resisted going back to the way things were.

Most of the fifties saw the ‘Collarless’ fad, where even collared submissives might venture out without their collar on, and that eventually started to evolve into something more. 

In the early sixties a Collarless activist, Betty Friedan, published a book: The Submissive Mystique. The Collarless took it up as manifesto of sorts, especially the last chapter, which advocates a new life plan for submissives, including not viewing housework as a career, not trying to find total fulfillment through serving their whiphand and child rearing alone, and finding meaningful work that uses their full capabilities.

After the untimely death (conspiracy therorists claim assassination) of Friedan and the further banning of her book, the movement seemed to die with her (the therorists claim that there was an active counter movement funded by the FBI; Clint’s one of the few people who knows it’s true thanks to a quick break in at Winchester to erase his own record after a string of bad decisions up the east coast).

Thirty years later her estate unsuccessfully tried to sue the government to lift the ban on the book under a first amendment claim, bringing the Submissive Mystique back to life and starting an underground cultural revolution. 

Many of the New Collarless, or NCs, came out of the woodwork to support the Equal Pay act of 1993 and were deemed the reason it passed, though the conservatives included an amendment that employers need to provide for the safety and well being of any uncollared submissive in their employ. 

Conservative thought was that this would prove to be too much of a hardship for most companies and it would have a cooling effect on hiring uncollared submissives outside of family businesses but instead it heralded an influx of collarless employees as companies were able to pay effectively lower wages in exchange for bigger benefit packages which often included cost effective company housing and commissary along with staff dominants for submissives to request companionship or discipline as needed.

Not that Clint can imagine _asking_ to be punished. 

After seeing Coulson and Matthew together, Clint had assumed SHIELD submissives followed high protocol but that turned out to be a particular quirk of Coulson’s, one in which Matthew apparently enjoyed indulging him in. 

Coulson has a natural dominance that Clint envies, and, yes, that’s all it is. Even if Clint hadn’t seen him in action in London, it was obvious from Clint’s first day; everyone except Hill and Fury gives him little signs of deference and the Director and Deputy Director treat him as an equal, even though they both outrank him.

It’s made it that much more important that no one at SHIELD ever finds out what he really is.

Clint’s been the perfect dominant. Most people would think that would mean maximum swagger, maximum bravado, maximum sex appeal, turning all the ‘dominant’ traits up to 11, challenging Phil for his top dog status, but that’s not what actually works best. Like in most things, it’s better to be the unexpected, to see all the angles and come at the problem sideways. 

By refusing to play any dominance games while being friendly and charming to everyone, he’s set himself as above it all, not seeming to notice there’s an above to be. He acts as if he’s better than those petty rivalries that pop up in most offices but also convinces the other dominants that they are, too.

By voluntarily ceding control (as new as he is to working in a team environment, nine times out of ten it’s the optimal option regardless of dynamic politics, making it an easy choice), he shows more power and restraint than most dominants will ever have. When he knows he’s the expert on the scene he has no compunction about using every tool at his disposal to ensure things get done; preferably with the least amount of collateral damage.

He’s had more than his fair share of partners since he left Carson’s and struck out on his own; the world of international crime for hire is relatively small and Hawkeye has a reputation as being easy going, efficient, and relentless. He’s also known for his integrity and (temporary) loyalty; which is especially prized when allies can become rivals in the blink of a single bank transfer. 

While Clint has had no issues with the dominants, the submissives are a whole nother story.

He’s this close to calling in a favor and faking a relationship with someone but that would only create more problems than it would solve.

So he plays the consummate bachelor, a dominant who will flirt and charm all the submissives but never take any home. 

Not that he’s taking _anyone_ home these days. 

Luckily, SHIELD keeps him busy enough that the little itch in the back of his mind is pretty easy to ignore, though he has cursed himself out more than a few times for not breaking his dry spell before coming in. Matthew’s spanking is the most action Clint’s gotten in the last three months. 

Well, besides his rich fantasy life. 

He should go hunting with his next block of downtime. Leave town and find an anonymous dominant to work off some of the build up. 

Out of idle curiosity he’s checked over SHIELD’s Dominant Roster, the list of dominants available to any of SHIELD’s submissives to assist in making sure their emotional, physical, and disciplinary needs are met, but as much as he respects the dominants listed— well, most of them, John Garrett is an asshole and one of these days Clint isn’t going to be able to keep from putting his fist through Garrett’s face— none of them are doms he can see himself scening with, even if it was worth the risk, which it never is. 

So it doesn’t matter that Phil isn’t on the list. 

There’s also an unofficial list of uncollared submissives available to scene with, something most of SHIELDs submissives want him to be very aware of. 

Honestly, most of them just need a sympathetic ear, someone who won’t put their issues down to ‘submissive’s troubles’, someone who treats them with every bit the same respect they give dominants, and that’s something he’s more than willing to provide. 

He’ll concede that the packaging doesn’t hurt, either. 

SHIELD is surprisingly liberal, submissives can be found at all levels, though only collared submissives can be field agents, many uncollared submissives are scientists or work in medical or administration. 

Nearly half of all SHIELD scientists are subs and it’s said that Peggy Carter, one of SHIELD’s founding members had been an Collarless at the time, so that might have something to do with it. Word is she was the original field agent, though these days her uncollared status wouldn’t fly. Field work is dangerous enough that under the Equal Pay Act submissives need permission from their whiphand before each mission for both their and SHIELD’s safety. 

SHIELD offers the same benefits to everyone, allowing agents of any dynamic to live in agency housing or to eat at their surprisingly good cafeteria. They even provide a decent commissary for essentials.

Overall Coulson runs a tight ship and runs it well.

There’s still your typical office politics, something Clint’s only familiar with from TV and movies, submissives tend to defer to dominants and there’s a clear if unspoken pecking order.

There’s been more than one occasion when Clint’s had to check on a sub after a dom has slapped their ass or otherwise behaved inappropriately, making sure they’re okay and offering to intervene on their behalf in the future. A few have even taken him up on it, unofficially coming under his protection, though Clint’s afraid that’s more because they want under his whip than out of any real fear or disgust for how they're treated. 

Submissives tend to work at lowered desks so that they can sit or kneel on floor cushions and they often get stuck with the scutwork, like making copies or going for coffee runs, whether it’s part of their job description or not.

Clint will tell you one thing for free, if he were one of these submissives and he was told to get coffee that dominant would end up fucking wearing it. 

If they were lucky. 


	5. Chapter 5

“So then, no, hold on, hold on, I haven't gotten to the best part. So I’m standing there naked as the day I was born except for a metric shit ton of body glitter, holding the fucking tiger’s leash, and I tell her, “I thought you said _you’d_ bring the oranges!” 

Phil laughs, wiping a tear away, “What did you do next?”

“I went out and got the damn oranges, of course. If one of the world's foremost contortionists promised you a mind bending scene, what would you have done?” Technically it’s Barney’s story but the delivery is better if Clint substitutes himself.

It had been even more hilarious at the time, trying to clean orange pulp and glitter off of his brother in their caravan barely big enough for one of them, much less two.

At least Empress hadn’t tried to eat Barney, while she loved Clint she had just barely tolerated him. 

Barney had gotten pissed at Clint pointing and laughing and the resulting tussle ended with a black eye (Clint) and a broken nose (Barney) and Clint nearly as sticky and glittery as Barns. 

He wonders what his brother’s up to these days. 

Probably nothing good. 

“Talked her out of the glitter, for one.”

“Not the tiger?”

“I’m used to taming dangerous predators who could snap me in two without a thought.”

 _‘Fuck me_ ,’ Clint knows Phil isn’t flirting with him but some damned part of him deeply wishes he was. 

“So what about you, what was your most embarrassing scene?” Clint pops the last orange segment into his mouth and moans. He doesn’t know where SHIELD gets its produce but it’s magical. 

Barton making that sound should be illegal, “Oh, no, I’m not telling you that one; especially not in the cafeteria.”

Phil and Barton have started eating breakfast together whenever Barton isn’t out on a mission and Phil has found himself looking forward to it more and more. He’s starting to get disappointed anytime Barton’s away, though exchanging snarky text messages is a pretty nice consolation prize. 

It had actually started with them texting while Barton was in Buenos Aires, at first just some logistical questions, then insightful and often hilarious observations on his teammates with wry commentary from Phil, into an easy exchange where if one of them thought about something to tell the other one in the middle of the night they would just send it, usually getting a response right away. 

“Oh, come on, Phil, pleeeeeeease?” Clint bats his eyes like an ingenue. 

Sweet mercy, that look should be illegal. Phil has to do some mental gymnastics to keep from getting hard and it’s a losing battle.

He’s never felt this way about another dominant before which is his only saving grace; as soon as he had realized he was attracted to the man he had made himself retake SHIELD’s DA and he had come up clean; but even that doesn’t save him from his inappropriate thoughts.

Part of him is secretly hoping Clint’s DA comes back with latent switch tendencies. 

He looks at Clint, flirting with that cute submissive from accounting, Lillian something, trying to get her to join in on begging Phil to reveal his most embarrassing scene, and thinks there’s about as much chance of that as Phil covering himself in body glitter and taming a tiger. 

~~~

“Clint,” Phil sighs at the way Clint’s leaning back, balancing the chair on two legs as he throws Phil’s pens to stick in the ceiling in an unfortunately adorable cartoonish image of Clint’s face smirking at him. 

“You wanted to see me boss?” _Ffflt_ , Clint throws a pen, wanting to see how far he can get. Just a few more and he’ll be done and have to figure out what to do next. 

Maybe Phil’s grumpy face? It was no end of delight when Clint first discovered that it tends to hide the fact that Phil’s surprisingly wicked sense of humor is secretly at play. 

The challenge now has become getting him to say what he’s thinking out loud.

Phil frowns. Those are going to leave a mark. 

“First, I want to say how impressed we all are with how well you’re fitting in here at SHIELD.”

 _Ffflt_ , another pen goes up.

Phil didn’t think he had that many. Clint must have raided the supply closet. 

“We really appreciate not just the skill, but the enthusiasm you’ve brought to the table.”

_Ffflt._

“I’ve got nothing but glowing reports from your handlers and your teammates.”

_Ffflt._

“FOR THE LOVE OF GOD WILL YOU STOP!” Damn it. He had promised himself not to let Clint get under his skin and yet here they are. 

Again. 

Clint smiles at his victory, letting his chair drop down and setting a couple boxes of pens on the desk. It will never not be fun getting Phil to break. 

Phil flushes, his embarrassment obvious, and he clears his throat, “There is one thing though,” Clint raises an eyebrow, “The required induction modules still haven’t been completed and they’re due at the end of the week. I can get you an extension, but—”

“Chill dude. I’ll get them done on time.”

“I know they seem inconsequential but we do take them seriously and it’s every agent’s responsibility to complete them within their first 90 days.”

“I said, ‘I’ll get them done’.”

“I don’t know if you realize how extensive our testing is—”

“Why don’t we make it interesting. Say… if I get them done by the deadline, you have to run through the cafeteria naked, if I don’t, I will,” He knows Phil will never go for it, which is disappointing considering what Clint’s seen the increasingly frequent times their paths have crossed at the gym.

“While I know you’re accustomed to showing your ass, I need you to take this seriously.”

“Tell me, are you in the Guinness Book World Records for largest stick up the ass or have they not gotten around to calling you yet?” Clint teases. 

“Barton.”

Shit. There’s that tone of voice that goes straight to Clint’s cock, that nearly pulls him to his knees and he’s suddenly lost the upper hand. 

Not that he can ever let Phil know that.

“Fine, you set the wager.”

Phil can’t believe he’s considering this. It’s juvenile and asinine.

“Get them done on time and I’ll stop complaining about your paperwork. You don’t and you start doing it right for a change.”

Clint’s smirk mirrors the one in the ceiling as he holds out his hand, “Deal.”

Phil smirks back. 

He won’t miss Clint’s colorful reports. 

He won’t. 

~~~

Clint hadn’t expected the DA, though maybe he should have. 

Not that he’s worried, he can pass these things in his sleep. 

It’s the ones like data classification and privacy that give him the most trouble. Clint had never expected to be _more_ conservative than a semi-governmental paramilitary organization but here he is. 

Maybe it’s a sign that he’s too fucking paranoid. 

Nah, he’s still alive which means he’s being just paranoid enough.

He isn’t expecting anything when Phil asks Clint to meet him in the office first thing Monday morning instead of discussing whatever it is right away like he would if there had been some sort of problem with his tests, Saturday or no. He had passed them all, though a couple took multiple attempts. 

It’s probably some new mission, high enough priority to need him first thing, not so urgent that he needs to come in on a weekend. 

Maybe it’s about their bet. 

Clint thinks he might pick up some new calligraphy pens and do the next report all in Bookhand. He could do a couple dirty illuminations while he’s at it in the non-metallic gold ink he found that the document scanners won’t pick up. 

Maybe add some of those terrifying medieval cats to the margins. 

He can make it a whole thing. It will take a few hours but he can work most of it up beforehand and it will totally be worth the look on Phil’s face when he turns it in. Clint never thought he’d see the day where he hoped for some action just so he could do paperwork. 

“What’s up, boss-man?”

“Clint. Have a seat,” Phil hasn’t been looking forward to this conversation. 

Well, part of him has. 

The relief of finding out he isn’t contradyamic had been so profound he had spent the entire weekend fighting the urge to text Clint and ask him _why,_ managing to keep their texts to observations on the news coming out of South Sudan and why the hell the barista at their favorite coffee shop wrote her number on Phil’s cup when she had been flirting with Clint. 

Who knows. Maybe she had sensed something, too.

Phil swallows down his nervousness; it will be fine, they just need to work out the logistics of getting Clint a whiphand— not Phil of course, just because his infatuation isn’t aberrant doesn’t mean it isn’t still inappropriate.

He had felt just as guilty for his fantasies as ever, maybe more so as this weekend had been the first time he had actually let himself fully indulge in one, calling out Clint’s name as he climaxed. 

He fights a blush at the remembered pleasure.

“Phil?” Clint asks when Phil seems unusually reticent to start, “What’s going on?”

“I understand why someone like you might want to keep their dynamic hidden; I just don’t understand why you thought you had to keep it hidden from— us,” he had been about to say ‘from me’, because that’s the crux of the issue for Phil. He had thought they had become friends; _close_ friends. 

Clint goes preternaturally still, a predator just now recognizing the trap for what it is, he asks in a carefully precise voice, “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Your DA. You’re a submissive.”

“Bullshit,” and Clint realizes he played this wrong. He should have laughed loose and free, as if Phil were playing some sort of prank on him, turned up that casual dominance that’s second nature to him but he had frozen and he knows he just confirmed Phil’s suspicions. Still, he has to try. He’ll go for offended then; it’s his next best hope, “There must be some sort of mistake.”

“There’s no mistake.”

“The test got something wrong.”

“It’s not—”

“The test got it wrong, I’m not a fucking submissive.”

Phil feels a thread of unease. SHIELD’s specialists had perfected the test to the point that there was a non-zero error rate. 

But Phil is a numbers guy and he knows non-zero isn’t zero.

“Clint, the chances—”

“See! Even you admit it could be wrong. Let me take the damn thing again, I’ll prove it.”

“Clint—”

“I swear to God, Coulson, if you don’t call off this shit right now I am walking out that door and none of you will see me again. Ever.”

Phil feels a chill. Clint is deadly serious and with what Clint’s learned about SHIELD over the last three months he could do it, too. It had taken everything Phil had to keep up with Clint before, the only reason he had been able to recruit him in the first place was that Clint had come to them. If Clint runs now he’ll be a ghost. 

Less than that. 

A memory. 

“I’ll set it up. You can take it again. But if it comes back as submissive, you don’t run. You stay and we deal with it. Together. Agreed?”

Clint looks at him and something Phil never thought he’d see is lurking deep in his indigo eyes.

Fear.

“For me?” Phil asks and sees Clint weakening. He adds, “Please?”

“Okay,” Clint sighs, letting his shoulders and head drop and rubbing the smooth spot of his BTE, “Okay.”

If it comes up submissive again he can just break his word and run if it comes down to it. He sees the hopeful and somehow longing look in Phil’s eyes and knows he’s made his decision. 

Even if he does manage to fool the test on the second attempt that seed of doubt has been planted in Phil’s mind and he won’t let it rest; he’s too tenacious, too thorough. Phil will always wonder and someday, inevitably, Clint will irrevocably fuck up and they’ll end up right back here. 

Part of Clint wonders if that would be so bad but the louder, more experienced part of him is screaming at him to cut his losses now and run.

But if he runs there’ll be no coming back. 

If he stays…

If he stays… 

_‘Maybe…’_ some part of him he thought long dead whispers, _“Maybe it won't be the end of the world.’_

He’s a fool. 

It already is. 


	6. Chapter 6

Fuck. 

FUCK!

Clint knew it was coming, knew that there’s no such thing as second chances for people like him, and yet some small stupid part of him had held out hope.

“This isn’t a bad thing, Clint.”

“Easy for you to say.”

No, actually it hadn’t been. Seeing Clint hurting like this is breaking Phil’s heart and knowing that he’s a submissive, that Phil’s instincts to protect Clint, to try and shield him from this kind of pain, are as natural as they are unwelcome, cuts Phil to his core. 

“It really isn’t, I promise. You’ll see.”

“It— this doesn’t have to change anything, you could help me, we could forge the results and—”

“Clint. No.”

Clint falls silent.

“Do you already have someone? A dominant you trust?” 

_‘You,’_ Clint’s traitorous brain supplies and Clint wants to laugh at the unfairness of it all.

He can’t think of any dominant he trusts more than Phil and no one less suited to dominate him. 

Phil knows Clint’s been getting his needs as a submissive met somewhere, he’s far too stable not to be; the frequency of when a submissive needs to be dominated, much like a dominant’s need to dominate, is different from person to person but they do all need it. _Clint_ needs it. Otherwise he wouldn’t have come up submissive.

Phil can’t imagine any whiphand letting their submissive run around without a collar like Clint has, but it’s possible he already has one. Maybe this will just be a case of completing a W-10 and a Permission Contact Form.

They’ll have to go through a security clearance first, of course, but Phil can fast track that. 

It’s the least he can do. 

It may be the _only_ thing he can do. 

Phil wonders who the NC has been going to when he needs release or punishment, telling himself he has no right to be jealous even as part of him selfishly hopes that Clint doesn’t have any one person, that he’s been getting his needs met by a string of different dominants and that he hasn’t gotten attached to anyone.

Not that that would matter; if Clint doesn’t have a dominant in mind to be his whiphand then he’ll be assigned one off of SHIELD’s Dominant Roster, a list which most definitely does not contain Phil’s name. 

And any temptation to add himself just for Clint is pure madness. 

Clint’s silent enough that Phil prompts softly, as if afraid to startle him, “Clint.”

“No,” Phil can’t fathom how such a small, lost sound could come out of Clint Barton’s mouth. He has his arms folded across his chest and he’s slouched down in his chair, reminding Phil for a moment of that submissive boy Phil had mistaken him for all those weeks ago— or maybe not, remembering his _‘Oi! Watch it’_ and accompanying rude gesture. In all the important ways Clint is a million miles away from that boy, “There’s no one.”

“Well, that’s not a problem, let me see who’s on the Roster. Maybe I can help give you insight on everyone so you can make an informed choice?”

Clint shrugs almost imperceptibly.

“Clint!”

Clint flinches in a way he never has at Phil’s sharp tone and Phil’s softer when he says, “Look at me? Please?”

Clint’s been sunk in his own soul; that small part of him saying he can still run getting quieter and quieter. 

If he was going to run he would have done it the second he left Phil’s office to retake the test in the privacy of his own room. 

He could have been off the grid in a matter of minutes. 

No. 

No, he’s going to see this through no matter how humiliating it may be. 

“Yeah. Yeah, okay. Who’s first on the list?” he asks sitting up and rubbing the back of his BTE.

Phil knows they’re going to have to time this carefully; the second they contact the first dominant, no matter how much they may promise to keep it quiet the news will spread like wildfire. Nobody gossips like a bored spy with a juicy story.

“Hand, but I don’t think she’s right for you.”

“Oh?” Clint agrees completely but he wants to know Phil’s reasoning.

“Too traditional. She’ll have you going out of your mind within the first week,” it’s the second highest reason Phil isn’t unsuitable as well. 

The first is that what they have now is too important to the both of them and Phil doesn’t want that to change. 

Even if he knows it’s already too late. 

“So who would you recommend first?”

“May,” Phil says without reservation. May was the first handler he had set Clint up with and they had clicked immediately, they both have a love of harmless pranks and a devil may care attitude

“No.”

“No?”

“She’s the best handler here. I’m not fucking with that.”

“Okay, how about Quartermain; he has a gentle hand and won’t ask too much.”

“I—,” Clint’s about to say no but he can’t veto every name on the list and if Phil says he’s one of the best then he’s one of the best. Soft isn’t Clint’s preference but it’s not like he’ll be Clint’s _real_ whiphand, “Okay.”

“Would you like me to set up a conference room, or—”

“Could you be there— I mean, if that’s okay?” Clint has no idea how any of this is supposed to work. 

“Of course; I can act as matchmaker.”

“I— Thank you, Phil.”

“You’re welcome—”

“No. Really. Thank you.” 

This sucks but it would suck a million times more without Phil in his corner. 

“It’s my honor, Mr. Barton,” Phil says with formality, adding a small bow of his head to let Clint know he’s taking his matchmaker status seriously and will defer to Clint’s judgement. 

Phil’s not licensed but he isn’t claiming to be so it’s not like the Matchmaker Governing Board is going to come after him. The MGB lost the battle against lay people performing matches at its inception, though it does still regulate both professionals and amateurs; mostly to ensure all matches are consensual, especially any that are profit driven. 

Which isn’t a factor here. 

_‘Mostly,’_ Phil thinks. He knows Clint wouldn’t have chosen this if he had any other option but he is choosing to stay with SHIELD instead of leaving and Phil will ensure any dominant he submits to will honor his safeword.

God help them if they don’t. 

“Do you want to do this here, then, or in an interview room?”

“Here, if you don’t mind?”

Phil smiles, “I wouldn’t have offered…”

Clint smiles at him and if it’s a little sickly, lacking his normal charm, that’s understandable. 

Phil wishes he could make Clint believe that everything will be okay, that Phil will ensure that Clint gets taken care of, but he knows that will only come with time. 

At some point someone hurt Clint— hurt him bad. 

If Phil ever finds out who that was, not even God will save them from his wrath. 

“Hey, Clay,” Phil says, on the phone with the agent, “Could you come down to my office? I have a new assignment I’d like to discuss with you. Thank you, see you soon.”

Clint likes that. That this is an assignment. A mission, of sorts, and he finds some of his natural vibrancy coming back to him. 

Phil’s right. Clint can do this. Maybe if he treats it like a job it won’t be so bad. Clint's gone undercover as a submissive a couple times before he joined SHIELD and he survived it just fine. 

He’d even had a little fun with it. 

And he’s got Phil as back up this time.

He’s got this. 

~~~

He doesn’t ‘got this’.

Quartermain is shocked, but gracious in his denial, apologizing for not being the dominant Clint needs. He says he recognizes his limitations and trying to dominate Clint is one of them. 

Then they try Agent Hope, but Andrea says the same thing Clay had and that she appreciates what Clint is going through but she isn’t up to the task. 

And so on and so on until the list was narrowed down to May, Hand, and Garrett.

“Clint, I think we’re going to have to ask May.”

“No, I know. You’re right,” he says morosely.

“Hey,” Phil says, bumping his shoulder into Clint’s, “Knock it off. None of them were rejecting you.”

“Oh really, Phil? How is that? Because the way I see it we just met with 23 of the best dominants SHIELD has to offer and down to a dom every fucking one of them can tell I’m a shit submissive.”

“Clint! Don’t say that. Just because they see you as more powerful than them doesn’t mean they think you're a bad sub,” Phil chides; not bringing up that they only went through the local list, he doesn’t think that would go over well right now. 

SHIELD has offices spanning the globe and while long distance domination isn’t ideal, Clint could pick a whiphand from that pool and they could coordinate with outside dominants for his physical well-being. 

Maybe Phil should call Billie? She’s more traditionalist like Phil and Hand but she’s also used to delegating her submissive’s needs.

“Let’s call May in?” Phil is disappointed in himself. If he had just been more adamant about May in the first place they could have saved Clint all this frustration.

Clint sighs, rubbing the back of his ear and Phil hides a frown. It’s a blatant tell for how upset he is and Phil’s seen it more today than in the entire time Phil’s known him, “Okay. Let's get this over with.”

“Hi May—”

“No.”

“What? Why?” He doesn’t even pretend to not know what she’s talking about. 

“Because, Phil, you’ve been head over heels for Clint Barton since that bank job in Lagos.”

Phil smiles at the memory. 

He had ended up covered in chicken feathers and spent a week smelling like poultry; that was the day he swore he would make Hawkeye a SHIELD agent or lock him up, but in retrospect May is right.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because _you_ never said anything. I didn’t want to embarrass you. Phil, you’re the most morally upright dom I’ve ever met. You never would have acted on those feelings as long as you thought Barton was a dominant. And it turns out your feelings knew better than the rest of us, so stop screwing this up and tell him you want to be his whiphand.”

“May, please—”

The sick feeling that had been growing in the pit of Clint’s stomach seems to bottom out. That Phil is reduced to begging on his behalf has been the most mortifying straw yet and Clint’s back is about to fucking break. 

“Stop being a chicken, Phil; dom up and tell him. Tell him or I will. We both know I’m not right for him and you are.”

“But he’s exactly what you look for—”

Clint can’t listen to anymore of this and signs, his right fist on top of his left and circling counterclockwise then right hand palm up fingers curved in front of his chest, flipping over until his fingertips touch his left palm, «I’m getting a coffee refill,» before taking both of their nearly full mugs and bolting from the room. 

The last thing he needs to listen to Phil trying to convince May of something that’s patently untrue. He isn’t anyone’s idea of a good submissive. 

“— in a submissive; he’s funny and easy going; he’s a great listener, kind to kids and dogs, always willing to do what he’s asked,” sure, sometimes he only followed the letter of the law and not the spirit, or vice versa, but May likes her submissives bold enough to subvert the rules when it suits them, “You can’t say you haven’t imagined what he’d be like in the dungeon since you found out.”

“He may be my type but he’s as much in love with you as you are with him.”

“What? You can’t be serious.”

“Phil, I’ve got better things to do than coddle you. Get your head out of your ass and ask the boy to wear your collar. _Your_ collar, not a SHIELD issued one.”

“But May—,” she hangs up.

Phil checks his watch, it’s after nine in London, a little late to call Billie. Maybe in the morning?

He calls Hand instead, “Hello, Victoria? It’s Phil.”

“Oh, no, don’t look at me.”

“Please—”

“We would kill each other in the space of a week. Look, he’s an amazing agent but can you really see him giving a proper Greeting? Or going through the Thirteen Classical Positions? Or Offering your coffee? Face it, the boy obviously hasn’t been trained a day in his life and, honestly Phil, I don’t have the energy to train a new sub from scratch; much less one with a lifetime of bad habits to unlearn.”

“I see,” Phil says carefully so as to not let her know how angry her words make him. 

Not because she’s wrong. 

Because she’s right. 

He disagrees with her on one point though: Clint can learn anything he puts his mind to; he could leave Hand’s harem in the dust with the proper motivation.

Phil politely ends the call with Hand’s words ringing in his ears and looks down at the list. 

One name left. 

He knows that if he suggests going to Billie or any of their off campus dominants that it will crush Clint, more than he’s already been by the day so far. 

Which leaves John Garrett.

Phil’s doodling a frowny face next to John’s name on his list. 

Garrett is, Phil’s loath to admit it, a— he can’t bring him to say good, but effective works— handler. He’s too ‘brute force’ for Phil, every problem he sees as a nail to be hammered; which is sometimes what the mission calls for, often enough that John is one of SHIELD’s top handlers despite his personality. 

Garrett sees dominants as naturally superior— and therefore submissives inferior, though he’s learned to not say it out loud, at least not where Phil can hear. It’s the main reason Phil has never assigned a submissive to any of his missions. 

Garrett tends to take liberties with SHIELD subs, most of whom know better than to be alone with him. Very few of the uncollared submissives seek out a second session with him and the rumors are that he’s even more brutal in the dungeon than he is in the field. 

Phil can’t imagine anyone less suited to dominate Clint, except maybe Phil, for obvious reasons. 

And Clint can handle himself. He’s proved that repeatedly.

Clint gets back with their ‘refills’; he took long enough that he must have gone all the way to the cafeteria, not just the breakroom on this floor.

“She knew all along, didn’t she?” Clint will have to thank her at some point for not outing him. 

Phil can’t let Clint know he was lusting after him even when he thought Clint was a dominant, Clint would be horrified. 

Phil is still horrified even knowing that some part of him _had_ to have known Clint was a submissive. 

“She’s very perceptive.”

Clint gives a sad smirk, “So, am I ‘too powerful’ for her, too?”

“May doesn’t think she’s the right whiphand for you. She said that you deserve someone better.”

“Better?” Clint’s laugh is bitter, “They aren’t exactly knocking down the fucking door here.”

“Clint,” Phil knows he doesn't keep the disapproval out of his voice but Clint isn’t the only one the day has been wearing on. 

Clint doesn’t let him continue, waving away his objection, “So… Hand?” 

At Phil’s apologetic look Clint’s shoulders slump, “Looks like I’m all out of choices. Let’s call Garrett and get this over with. Unless…”

Phil tried not to let his hope/fear show; if Clint asks him he knows he won’t say no.

“You haven’t already called him, too?”

“No,” Phil doesn’t let his disappointment show.

This is going to suck. Garrett is Clint’s least favorite handler and the one Clint’s had to bail out more than any other. Their relationship is… contentious at best. 

Clint has had to save more than one submissive from his unwanted advances and he knows that Garrett resents Clint for that almost as much as he resents Clint for having to save him out in the field.

The thought of submitting to the dom turns Clint’s stomach but then maybe that’s because he’s exactly the type of dominant Clint usually seeks out. 

One who will beat him into submission, treat him like shit, and then let him go without a second thought. 

It’s the ‘let him go’ part that worries Clint now; letting go means leaving Ph— leaving SHIELD. 

He’s scened with dominants he’s worked with before but, with a few exceptions, always after the job was done and Clint could cut ties and be in the wind before he had to deal with anything like aftercare or consequences, and always with someone who he trusted to keep his secret— or who’s unquestionably aware that any retribution isn’t worth revealing it. 

“There isn’t anyone from your personal life you trust to whiphand for you?”

Clint spares a moment to think, ‘ _Tasha,’_ but he knows the switch won’t get within a hundred kilometers of SHIELD if she can help it and while she might do it for him, that’s not a sacrifice he’s willing to ask her to make.

“No. Like I said, I don’t have anyone.”

“Okay,” Phil says, with obvious misgiving. Garrett’s bad enough that he brings up Billie after all, “You know Garrett isn’t your only option, we have dominants at other locations, ones that may be willing to set up a long distance arrangement. If you can coordinate with one of them as your whiphand to ensure you're taking care of your needs with an local dominant—”

“No,” Clint says tiredly, “I’ll make it work with Garrett. And if not,” he shrugs, his demeanor becoming perfectly carefree, if a little studied, and Phil can tell Clint cares in spite of himself, “Maybe me being with SHIELD just isn’t meant to be.”

Clint’s done too good a job playing the dominant and now no one wants him as a submissive. 

Not that Clint can blame them, he knows he’s a garbage fire of a sub.

Honestly, he’s not sure why he’s trying so fucking hard.

Then he looks over and sees that look of compassion in Phil’s eyes that had so floored him back in London and knows exactly why.

“Let’s get this over with.”

Phil dials with no small amount of trepidation. If this doesn’t work, he could lose Clint after all and that… that is just not acceptable. 

“John, it's Phil.”

“Hello, Matchmaker,” Garrett laughs and it chills something in Phil, “I was wondering when he’d get around to crawling to me.”

“It’s not like that.”

“Come on, Coulson, you know how the gossip mill runs around here. Do you think your boy is really ready to submit to a real dom?”

“ _John_ ,” Phil warns. 

“Easy, Phil, easy. Don’t you worry, I’ll give him exactly what he needs,” Garrett hangs up without waiting for a response. 

Phil looks up at Clint as he cradles the receiver, “I know you can take care of yourself but if he does anything to make you uncomfortable or tries to cross the line, I want you to come to me.”

No one has ever reported Garrett violating a safeword but part of Phil just doesn’t trust the dom. 

Clint shrugs, “Don’t worry about me; I can take a lot of abuse.”

“The point is you shouldn’t have to.”

“Because I have sooooo many options?”

“If this doesn’t work out, I’ll find another way. I’m not ready to lose you and if it comes down to you or Garrett, you’re the more valuable asset,” Phil says, and becomes more and more concerned as Clint remains silent. 

There it is. There’s the real reason Phil went to bat for Clint, why he’s trying so hard. 

Clint thinks maybe he can try to maintain their friendship when he leaves. Clint will be running through a series of burner phones again but Phil will be able to recognize any texts from an unknown number as being from Clint merely from the content of the message. 

Who else will send him random dog pictures in exotic locals, or snarky comments about world leaders in the news and the dirt only Clint has on them, or reviews of questionable street food?

It will mean no more planning sessions, those long nights helping Phil stitch together the perfect mission over Chinese or Indian, no more breakfasts in the cafeteria and making Phil smile first thing in the morning. No more colorful reports that Phil loves to hate. 

But maybe he can still salvage something out of this. 

Assuming that what they’ve shared has been real, that Clint is more than just an asset to Phil, that he really is Clint's friend. 

One that can overlook Clint’s deficiency. 

Garrett’s knock on the door precludes him from responding. 

“Clint,” Garrett says with a possessive curl to his voice, a stark difference from the resentful ‘Barton’ he usually uses, “Phil, I don’t think we need you for this.”

“I’m Clint’s matchmaker.”

Garrett scoffs, “C’mon Phil, we all know you’re no more a real matchmaker than Barton is a real submissive.”

Clint flinches but doesn’t say anything. What’s the point, Garrett’s right. Clint may belong to Garrett now but that doesn’t mean he’s going to _submit._

“It’s my responsibility to ensure your contract is negotiated in Clint’s best interests.”

“He can take care of himself,” Garrett says, echoing Phil’s earlier thoughts, “Isn’t that right boy?”

“John,” Phil growls but Clint interrupts him, holding up a hand.

“He’s right, Phil. I can handle it from here. Thank you for your help. Really, I appreciate everything you’ve done,” Clint opens the office door and tilts his head, telling Phil it’s time for him to go.

Phil hasn’t done anything but fail Clint as far as he’s concerned. He wants to kick Garrett out, to offer Clint _his_ collar, to Vow to take care of Clint’s needs as his own, but Hand’s right, they aren’t compatible and as much as it frustrates Phil, Garrett’s the better dom for the job.

“I’ll be right outside. If you need _anything_ —”

“Phil,” Clint interrupts, the clear ‘please’ in his tone stops Phil and Phil inclines his head, acquiescing before he leaves with one last glare at Garrett.

If Clint didn’t know any better he would say Phil is jealous. 

The door shuts with a final sounding _snkt_ and Garrett leans back against Phil’s desk, crossing his ankles and arms, “Well, well, well, the sheep in wolf’s clothing. I’ve got to admit, boy, you had us all fooled. How many times have you had to swallow down your need to beg, to get down on your knees and crawl for your betters?”

Clint pinches his mouth shut, not saying anything. 

“Well, let’s see it. Off the furniture, boy,” Clint slides off the office couch to his knees, unable to hold back his sneer, “Now _crawl_. Show me how much you need this.”

Clint closes his eyes and shudders, then starts placing one hand in front of the other as he crawls towards Garrett, glaring at him the entire way. When he gets to within about a foot he stops and sits back in his heels. 

If Garrett tries to make Clint put his cheek on his fucking boot, he’s out of here.

“Good boy,” Garrett says sarcastically, “Now, I think it’s about time you show me what those cocksucker lips can do.”

“Woah!” Clint’s on his feet in an instant, “Wait the fuck up; just because I’m going to submit to you doesn’t mean I’m going to fuck you.”

“It means exactly what that, brat; you suck my cock now or you’re done here.”

Fuck. 

_Fuck_. 

Clint pictures himself doing it and feels his knees start to bend, he’ll do it, to keep Ph— SHIELD, he’ll do it, “Now get back on your fucking knees where you belong and get your whore mou—”

_‘Get back on your fucking knees where you belong and get me a God damned beer you lazy fucking whore!’_

He will _never_ be his mother. 

His fist connects with Garrett’s face before he even knows he’s thrown the punch; he snarls, “Guess I’m done here.”

He stalks past Phil where he’s been hovering outside the door and down the hallway towards the barracks and his go bag.

He knew in his heart that SHIELD had been too good to be true, it shouldn’t hurt this much to be proven right.

Garett tries to stop his bleeding nose as he shouts after Clint, “You’ll be back, boy! And then you’ll pay for this, you little cock tea—,” cuts himself off when he sees Phil’s expression.

Phil chases after Clint, not needing to know exactly what happened. Garrett had obviously crossed a line during Clint’s Submissive’s Kiss based on Clint’s exit and Garrett’s parting shot. 

“Clint! Clint wait!” Clint doesn’t slow, just keeps striding with those long muscular legs— and there’s something wrong with Phil for staring at Clint’s ass as Phil picks up the pace, reaching out for Clint’s shoulder as he closes the gap, “Please, stop, we can find someone—”

“Who? Who, Phil? Have you been hiding someone in your pocket?” All of this just proves that Clint has been right to hide his dynamic. 

“Me,” Phil says suddenly, “I’ll do it.”

Phil nearly slams into him as Clint stops abruptly and turns, his expression a mix of hope and horror— proving to Phil that May is wrong, that Clint doesn’t feel anything more for Phil than friendship. 

Friendship Phil is about to ruin. 

But Clint’s already lost to him, at least this way they may be able to salvage _something_ , and when the right dom comes along maybe, if he’s lucky, Clint will still think of Phil fondly when this is all over. 

And at least he can give Clint a place here at SHIELD.

They won’t ever get back what they had, Phil knows that now. He’s been coming to terms with it all day, really since he first saw the results of Clint’s DA on Saturday and never does he wish he was less of a workaholic than now, at least then he might have had a couple more days of blissful ignorance. 

“Come back to my office. Stay. Please? For me?”

It’s the ‘please’ that does it, that always does it. It’s his Achilles' heel when it comes to Phil. 

“I —,” Clint’s shoulders slump and he lets himself give in to this weakness of his. 

This isn’t going to end well. 

It never does.

Once again, Clint gets exactly what he wants, and it’s terrible. 

Story of his God damned fucking life. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clint signs COFFEE AGAIN, which is how my instructor/study group signs asking for a coffee refill. 
> 
> Another version I’ve seen is COFFEE MORE (more is pinching your fingers into a flat ‘O’ with both hands and then tapping the tips of your fingers to each other in front of your chest).
> 
> Depending on the region these may be interchangeable or a different set of signs altogether. One of the beautiful things about ASL (to me at least) is how it has accents that come across in the slight (and not so slight) variations in the language from place to place.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rubicon: Irrevocably committing to a course of action, making a fateful and final decision. It alludes to Caesar's crossing the Rubicon River, the act a de facto declaration of war. 
> 
> Upshot: While it now refers to an outcome, result, or conclusion, it was originally an archery term meaning the final shot in a match.

Clint fidgets with his newly issued collar with its SHIELD tag while Phil fills out the forms; he already had them prepped, it’s just a matter of adding his contact information. 

Clint has never had a collar before, he’s not sure if he loves it or hates it. 

Maybe a little bit of both.

“You’re quiet,” Phil says.

Clint smiles wanly, dropping his hand from the tag with its engraved SHIELD logo and double border, “We both know neither of us really want this.”

Clint’s brain screams at him that he’s a liar but really he’s not. He knows exactly the type of dominant Phil is, what he prizes in his subs, and Clint knows he is none of those things. 

And now he’s have to keep his stupid crush in check _while_ trying to submit to Phil and it’s like his own personal hell. 

Even still, it’s better than leaving. 

Phil doesn’t flinch at Clint’s words, at how wrong they are, at how the image of him at home with Clint at his feet has been haunting him for months. At how it’s proof May was wrong about how Clint feels about him. 

He’s supposed to be Clint’s friend and now he has to be his whiphand. 

Everyone knows you can’t be both. 

Phil clears his throat into the awkward silence, “I’m sure we can find you a permanent whiphand eventually. We tried to push things too quickly. Don’t worry, I’ll help you every step of the way.”

Clint closes his eyes in pain, it’s not like he needs to hear Phil say he doesn’t actually want Clint as his submissive, that’s been made abundantly clear. 

“Let’s start easy, what’s your safeword?”

“Why bother?” Clint shrugs, “It’s not like I have any choice. Never really saw the point anyway. It’s not like a magic word can stop someone from fucking you up,” at Phil’s horrified look Clint is quick to course correct, “Not that I think you would hurt me, I mean, not like that; I’ve seen you with a paddle after all,” Clint says with a smirk, and when that doesn’t make Phil smile he says, “Really, Phil, it’s fine. I trust you,” he shrugs, “It’s not like I have limits anyway.”

Phil makes a small hurt sound in the back of his throat that surprises Clint, he hadn’t realized his trust meant that much to Phil; maybe he should have mentioned it sooner. Before… all this. 

Phil wants to cry, or maybe punch someone; he had already figured out that Clint has had it rough, but it’s worse than he thought. 

It’s obvious that Clint’s never been with a dominant worth the name. 

Not even close. 

_‘Oh, and you are?’_ A derisive voice whispers in the back of Phil’s mind, _‘Aren’t you taking advantage of him, too? Just like every other dominant he’s let see that part of him,’_ and Phil hates himself just a little bit more.

All Phil can do now is try to model the type of whiphand Clint should be looking for, one with a firm enough hand to guide someone with Clint’s strength but gentle enough not to break him. 

“Mine’s Rubicon.”

“Your what? What? Dominants don’t have safewords,” Clint says, as if stating a fact, ”Why would you even need one?”

“Dominants have their limits, too, Clint. We need to be able to put things on hold and reassess just as much as submissives do. Our limits may not be the same, but they are valid. _Your_ limits are valid.”

“Like I said, I just don’t see the point.”

Phil sighs, “So if I said, ‘Rubicon’ you’d what? Keep doing whatever it was that scared me or hurt me?”

“Phil,” Clit says with exasperation, “I’m not going to hurt you _or_ scare you.”

 _‘You already do,’_ Phil doesn’t say, “For my peace of mind then. Come up with a safeword. _One you’ll use._ If I find out you should have used it and didn’t… I’m not sure I could handle you breaking my trust like that.”

Clint shivers and tries not to let it show. He makes one more attempt to get Phil to drop it, “Phil—”

“No,” oh, _God_ , that _voice_ , Clint would do anything for that fucking voice, “You’re coming up with a safeword if we have to be here all night. You’re not leaving this room without one.”

Fuck. _Fuck_. He wants to slide to his knees, to apologize, to beg Phil’s forgiveness and it wells up within him like never before and he realizes he’s already accepted Phil as his whiphand.

Clint doesn’t do any of that, instead he sighs, “Fine… Upshot. But I’m telling you, it’s a waste of time.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

“Yes, Sir,” Clint says in a snide voice.

“No!” Phil snaps and Clint sits up straight without meaning to, “I can’t allow you to do that anymore,” he gentles his tone, “I know I’ve been fine with it in the past,” amused even, but he can’t tell Clint that and undo all the groundwork he’s laying, “But now that I’m your whiphand you’ll have to show more respect.”

“Seriously?” Clint gives him an unimpressed look.

“Yes. Seriously,” Phil says without an ounce of compromise.

“Fine,” Clint rolls his eyes, “Sir.”

“ _Clint,”_ Phil warns in his dominant voice.

Clint closes his eyes, as if praying for patience and not at all like the reprimand tears him apart inside, “Sorry. Really, I’m sorry, Phil. This is just hard.”

“I know it is, Clint; but if we’re doing this, we’re doing it right. I won’t be a whiphand in name only,” Clint feels a smirk play at the corner of his mouth, as if Phil could ever be a WINO, “I’ll try to be lenient where I can. I know this won’t be like anything you are used to but maybe it’s for the best. Now, normally that kind of sass would be ten with a paddle—”

Clint stares at Phil in shock, “Ten with the— Are you in—”

“Clint.”

There’s that disappointed voice and Clint winces. 

“Each. But I’m willing to let them slide. This time. Don’t make me regret it.”

“Y— yes, Sir,” Clint says, for the first time meaning it and he feels it twist inside him, on the thinnest edge of between good and bad where he can’t tell which it is.

Maybe both. 

Phil stills as the honorific goes straight to his cock; he’s only ever imagined what Clint would sound like in his submission and it’s sweeter than anything Phil could have dreamed of. 

All he can think of for a second is Clint’s Submissive’s Kiss; how his lips will feel around Phil’s cock, how sweet his submission will be, sealing his fate to Phil’s, even if only temporarily. 

He is so screwed. 

How is he ever going to be able to let this go?

Clint doesn’t notice, getting up and pacing, “What else?”

“Let’s… Let’s not do this here. I know this is going to be a difficult transition, so we can try to keep your submission and work as separate as possible. Let’s go get dinner, there’s a new soul food place on 29th. We don’t have to worry about this until we get home. I assume you're already packed?” Phil asks with a sad smile, knowing how close Clint had been— and probably still is— to bolting.

Clint takes a deep breath and sighs. He’s going to do nothing but worry until they get to Phil’s place.

Their place now, he guesses. 

But Phil’s right. Better to do this off site. 

“Yeah, I’ll go get it. Do you want me to leave my bike here and take Lola?”

“If you don’t mind?”

“Can I drive?” Clint says, bouncing his eyebrows up and down suggestively.

“Not a chance, brat,” Phil says and, for once in Clint’s life, it doesn’t sound like an insult. 

~~~

Dinner is delicious, just what both of them need, old fashioned comfort food that fills their hearts as well as their stomachs. Unfortunately, even the food hadn’t been enough to save it from being the most awkward meal of their lives, both of them tentative and unsure. 

They try to pretend everything is normal, as if they hadn’t exchanged safewords before leaving the office, as if Clint weren’t going home with Phil, not for a beer and to catch the game, but to move in. 

Phil tries a couple conversational gambits but Clint’s only able to give soft monosyllabic responses. 

The drive home is quiet as they both contemplate the sea change to their relationship. 

Clint should have taken his bike. 

Now it feels like he left his last best chance at freedom behind. 

Phil turns on the radio quietly to try and fill the silence and they both stay lost in their thoughts for the rest of the drive. 

~~~

Phil doesn’t make Clint take his boots off as soon as they get home, which in retrospect is a mistake. 

It probably wouldn’t have kept him from running but it might have slowed him long enough for Phil to try and talk him down. 

~~~

The first thing Phil does after setting down his keys, he’ll make an apartment key for Clint tomorrow, is get his mom’s copy of Emily Post’s _Submission in Society, in Business, in Politics, and at Home_ that his mother gave him when he turned thirteen, as it had been given to his mom by her father when she was thirteen. 

Mom had thought it too ‘adult’, suggesting that while it was appropriate for her father to give it to her at that age, dominants naturally develop slower and that Mother should wait until he was sixteen.

Mother had pointed out that Phil was mature for his age and, in the end, Mom had deferred to her whiphand, as was only proper. 

Phil had initially complained that _Submission_ was a book for, well, submissives but Mother had pointed out that it’s a whiphand’s duty to ensure their submissive has proper training, not their submissive to ensure they’re properly trained and she was, as in most things, correct.

Phil will admit, his early preoccupation with _Submission_ had focused mostly on the section on the Thirteen Classical Positions of Submission Every Proper Submissive Should Know, or more specifically, the accompanying pictures. 

The models are in old fashioned undergarments but the positions, especially the advanced ones, had been provocative to his teenage mind and the book been formative in developing Phil’s sense of dominance and submission, of what kind of dominant he wanted to be and what he wanted and expected out of his submissive’s Gift.

“This was my mom’s,” Phil says, handing the book to Clint almost reverently, “I think you’ll find it informative. I’m not expecting you to get the ins and outs of high protocol down overnight but I do want you to start reading it and let me know what questions you have. We can start working through the Positions in the evenings after work.”

“Uh, sure,” is all that he gives Phil, holding the book loosely in one hand and his duffle bag in the other, looking around Phil’s place as if it’s his first time here.

Clint’s noticing small things around Phil’s apartment that he had never let himself think about before, like the strategic placement of cushions, the hard points placed throughout the living room, the baskets next to the coat rack by the door, one with clean white cloths, the other empty.

The only other room he’s been in is the front bathroom; he knows Phil’s bedroom has an en suite he’s never seen, he’s only caught glimpses of the bedroom, enough to know it fills with light and is all dark wood and slate grey walls with cream carpet and accents.

There’s another door to what is presumably his dungeon. 

Clint wonders if he’s going to see that tonight. 

“I know you don’t have any formal training but together we can help you become a submissive any dominant would be proud to collar.”

Clint hadn’t really been paying attention but he caught that last bit and feels his temperature rise. He knows he’s not the kind of submissive anyone would ever be proud of but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt and his hands tighten involuntarily on the book and the strap of his duffle. 

His fog is wearing off and he starts to feel more himself than he has since Phil had called him into his office this morning—

Fuck, that had only been this morning. Less than twelve hours for his entire life to be turned upside down and inside out, for him to be outed as a submissive, collared by Phil— no, he remembers his tag, not Phil. 

SHIELD.

He can’t ever forget who he really belongs to.

Who he’s sold himself to.

Maybe Garrett’s right. Maybe he is a whore like his— No. No, she didn’t have a choice; so who’s the real whore?

“Clint?”

“Sorry, what?” His focus had drifted again. 

He thinks he may actually be in shock?

He can tell his hormones are going haywire, part of his body’s changes from accepting Phil as his whiphand, he needs to be careful, he can’t trust his judgment right now. 

Tasha once said that when you first accept a whiphand it’s like a drug turning you inside and out but nothing could have prepared him for this. He’s practically gone and roofied himself. 

Fuck is he horny.

Clint has been staring off into space as Phil has tried to lay some ground rules; normally his inattention would result in a punishment but these weren’t normal circumstances. 

“Maybe we should sit?” Phil gestures towards the couch.

“Yeah. Yeah, okay,” Clint says and sets his duffle by the door, holding on to the book.

Phil takes up his normal corner but stops Clint before he can sit on the other end like he usually does, “Here, please,” he motions to the cushion at his feet and Clint stares down at him with a troubled expression.

_‘Off the furniture, boy.’_

Clint shakes off Garrett’s voice.

This is different. 

He isn’t sure how but it must be, right?

Phil is nothing like Garrett. 

Phil hadn’t mentioned anything when Clint had sat opposite him at the restaurant, he hadn’t insisted Clint kneel for dinner, not that Clint would have but maybe Phil had recognized that submitting in public would be a step too far.

And he had said, _‘Please’_.

Clint mentally shakes his head at himself, unable to keep his mouth from pinching as he sits crossed legged on the cushion, worrying that giving in like this is a mistake but not wanting to make waves; at least not yet. 

Phil doesn’t sigh as Clint sits in a more dominant fashion, as much as he wants to correct him with a sharp jerk of his collar, Phil had promised to be lenient where he could and Clint is obviously trying. 

Phil hasn’t thought about training his own sub since college and he wonders if he hasn’t been a little overconfident in his ability to train Clint, Hand’s words echoing back at him, _‘I don’t have the energy to train a new sub from scratch; much less one with a lifetime of bad habits to unlearn.’_

“I’m not going to require you to follow high protocol at work or in public but I need to know you’re at least making a good faith effort at home. 

Clint’s lip tries to curl into a sneer but he holds it back, reminding himself that Phil is his only chance to stay with SHIELD, to try and keep some semblance of the life he’s grown to love.

Sometimes he wishes he had never lifted Phil’s wallet, never tracked him down to the Blade, never learned how happy he could be working for an organization like SHIELD.

Maybe he can try again at another agency? Hack his DA records and find out how he had failed the test and start over.

He feels a chill. 

The international spy community is as tight knit as the international criminal community and there’s no small amount of overlap. 

By now the fact that Hawkeye is a submissive is out and he’s never going to get it back. 

But that’s fine. 

That he won’t be able to trade on the reputation he’s built is a blow but he still has his safe houses and accounts all over the world. 

He can set up a new identity, start over from scratch; he’s good enough that he’ll start getting decent jobs sooner rather than later, especially with Tasha as a reference. 

But it won’t be the same. 

Freelancing has lost all of its shine. 

Maybe he’ll just retire, buy a fucking island and spend the rest of his days drinking piña coladas and forgetting he had ever heard of SHIELD or Phil Coulson.

Clint flips to a page at random in Phil’s book, _‘The perfect whiphand expects perfect service, but it never occurs to her that perfect service will not be voluntarily and gladly given. She, on her part, shows all of those under her protection the consideration and trust due them as honorable, self-respecting, and conscientious human beings. If she has reason to think they are not all this, a Dominant does not keep them in her house.’_

Clint frowns and closes the book.

Phil isn’t going to get rid of him just because he’s a bad submissive. 

Right?

“Clint?” Phil asks softly, not sure if Clint’s heard a word he’s said about his basic rules and setting up a schedule for his training.

“Do you mind if we just go to bed early? Give me a chance to read this and get a better idea of where you’re coming from?” Clint holds up the book.

There’s early, and then there’s this, but Clint’s has a long stressful day. They both have. 

If Clint were any other submissive Phil would have him give Phil a massage before giving his Submissive’s Kiss, the service would soothe both of them and he could reward Clint by worshiping him in return, releasing their tension by sating themselves in each other’s bodies. 

He should have Clint give his Submissive’s Kiss now, it’s a traditional start to a new collaring, but when he reaches out to stroke a finger along Clint’s collar Clint doesn’t so much flinch as his entire body jerks away and he says in a tentative tone of voice that Phil would never have expected out of Clint’s mouth, “Phil?”

“I was hoping we could get started with the basics? We can go over the steps of the proper Greeting, the right way to Kneel, that sort of thing. Why don’t you take off your shoes and socks, you should be barefoot for me anytime we are at home, and grab a polishing cloth from the basket by the door, then come back here on your knees where you belong.”

_‘Get back on your fucking knees where you belong.’_

Clint has to ramp down on an immediate flare of rage. 

He can’t tell if Phil is expecting him to crawl like Garrett did or if he just means getting on his knees when he gets back. One he might be able to handle, the other not so much. 

He remembers London and how Phil’s submissive for the evening, Matthew, had polished Clint’s boots and rested his cheek on the floor, how he laid his cheek on Phil’s foot. Clint had pictured himself in Matthew’s place more times than he’s willing to admit; the memory fueling countless nights of self pleasure.

Clint stands up carefully, like his bones are made of fragile glass; seconds away from shattering under the pounding weight of his heartbeat. One hand clutching the forgotten book to his chest as if to hide his heart, the other reaching for the smooth touchstone of the back of his BTE. 

He thought he could do this. Do anything. 

He’s become less and less sure of himself as the day has worn on and he doesn’t like it. 

Clint Barton isn’t meek. 

He isn’t hesitant. 

He may be _a_ submissive but he isn’t _submissive_. 

He drops his hand and straightens his shoulders, “Phil, no. Not tonight. I need some time to get my head back on straight. Just— Let me sleep on this?” 

He doesn’t know if Phil’s dungeon has it’s own bed and even if it does he’s not sure how good that would be for his nerves. Besides, he’s crashed on Phil's couch a couple times and it’s plenty comfortable. That will be fine until they’re sure they can tolerate living with each other, that they can both adapt to Clint submitting to Phil— as much as he’s fantasized about it, he can’t actually see Phil as the type to go toe to toe with him until Clint’s defences are lowered enough to let himself be pinned in place, to allow himself to feel weak enough to submit.

And again, fantasies aside, Clint’s having trouble imagining feeling safe enough to mix sex and submission with Phil— don’t get him wrong, he wants to fuck the man through the mattress but he can’t see Phil ever giving up that kind of control.

What would Phil think if Clint told him about that particular fantasy? 

Would he be curious? 

Turned on? 

Or disgusted?

Not that Clint doesn’t enjoy being on the receiving end of a good reaming, especially on those rare occasions he craves submissive sex, but it’s not his preference. He usually splits sex from submission for as long as he can until his need overwhelms him and he has to find a dominant strong enough that he can’t fight them, his fear of submission, and his desire to submit all at once; where he almost doesn’t want to. 

At any rate, even if he and Phil find their relationship developing to that point, Clint is still going to want his own bedroom, his own space. He’s never been comfortable spending the night with his conquests, preferring to leave with just memories and bruises before the afterglow fades. 

The few long running jobs he’s worked with other people have always been marked by shallow catnaps and too much coffee. Even when he’s slept on Phil's couch, and he _knows_ he can trust Phil, his sleep has been light and fitful, every move the dominant making in the other room bringing Clint fully awake, heart racing, knife in his hand. 

The only person besides his brother he’s ever been comfortable sleeping next to is Tasha. He should call her, get her advice on this whole clusterfuck. 

Or not, she’ll probably just laugh; she’s the one who called him on his crush in the first place, who talked him past his misgivings and into signing SHIELD’s contract. 

So, really, this is all her fault. 

“— give you time before becoming that intimate.”

Phil said something about a kiss and Clint vaguely remembers hearing something about how submissives’ kiss their whiphand when the dominant agrees to accept their ‘gift of submission’ and some off color jokes about ‘kiss’ being a euphemism for blow job, but seeing as he had never planned on getting himself a whiphand he’s never bothered to listen. 

He hadn’t realized Phil would want that. He’s imagined it a few times, kissing Phil, feeling Phil’s lips beneath his— he bets Phil is a great kisser. 

He’s great at everything.

“I’m willing to take it slow,” which is a relief, right? Clint’s not ready to deal with the emotional fallout of kissing Phil while protecting his heart— what is he thinking? There’s no emotion here, he likes Phil as a friend, yes, unfairly lusts after his body and his dominance, but love? He can’t love Phil, not like that, “But I expect you to sleep naked; I would prefer it were in my bed but I’m willing to look into getting you a submissive's cot.”

“I— _in your bed?!_ ” What the fuck happened to slow? He isn’t requiring Clint to kiss him but he wants Clint to sleep next to him naked? Just the sleeping part would be more than Clint can handle.

Phil’s jaw drops at the shock in Clint’s voice, surely he didn’t expect Phil to force him to sleep on the floor his first night, just because Clint isn’t ready to give his Submissive’s Kiss.

He’d never expected Clint to be this… _virginal_ and it makes something primal rise up in Phil, something that wants to _take_ as much as it does to protect. 

“I’m not sleeping in your bed, Phil,” Clint says with icy calm and Phil realizes his mistake. Clint wasn’t shocked by the thought of being made to sleep on the floor but in Phil’s bed and his innocence is nearly irresistible.

Phil wonders if he should take Clint tonight, if he even could, as resistant as Clint is to any sign of submission. The thought of having to do this the old fashioned way, of forcing Clint’s submission like some barbaric conqueror shouldn’t be so appealing. 

Phil likes his submissives sweet and willing in their submission, not combative and aggressive. He imagines it for a moment, not his fantasies of Clint crawling to him, of begging him with a voice full of need to accept the Gift of his submission, but of having to physically overwhelm Clint, of victory not being assured and Clint crying out for Phil to stop as he fights Phil every step of the way, willing to do everything but use his safeword to protect his Most Precious Gift. 

It’s nothing Phil’s ever wanted before but he wants it now. 

God, what is Clint _doing_ to him.

Phil has always prided himself on being an enlightened dominant and Clint is like a wrecking ball destroying his veneer of civilization. 

“I understand that this is all a lot and if sleeping in my bed is too much for tonight, I’m willing to allow you to make up a place on the floor next to the bed with cushions and a couple blankets.”

No way is Clint sleeping in the floor like a fucking animal.

“Were you planning on fucking me tonight, Phil?”

Clint asks, something dark and menacing crouching in his voice, ready to pounce.

“I promised to see to your needs and that includes sexually. At the very least you would benefit from some cuddling tonight; some skin on skin contact will help us settle into our new roles and as a submissive, you need—”

“I’m not fucking you just because I’m submitting to you!” Clint shouts, feeling betrayed. 

He thought Phil was different. 

Clint tries to picture Phil beating him down. 

Degrading him. 

Using him. 

He can’t. 

He’ll do what Phil says, within reason, but this _isn’t_ reasonable. 

“Clint,” Phil’s more confused that upset by the shouted statement, he won’t force Clint, of course he won’t, safewords are sacrosanct, but he won’t let Clint want and in these early days while they’re first bonding with each other he doesn’t think he can tolerate Clint scening around, not without fully vetting Clint’s bed partners as potential whiphands and he knows Clint isn’t ready for that either. 

That being said, Clint needs to learn to melt a little and cuddling will be a start, even if Clint still wants to sleep on the floor afterwards, “This is for your own good.”

“Fuck that, I’m sleeping on the couch.”

“Clint,” Phil says with a pained look, “When we’re at home you aren’t allowed on the furniture without permission.”

“What. The. Fuck,” Clint growls, “Give me your fucking permission then.”

“That really isn’t in your best interests.”

“In my— No. Fuck this and fuck you!” 

Clint’s scooping up his duffle bag as Phil stands and starts walking towards him with upraised hands, his tone soft as if talking to a feral animal, “Clint, wait, please, we can talk—”

“I’m done talking.”

“Come back,” Phil begs, “Please—”

“Don’t follow me.”

Phil’s heart skips a beat at Clint’s deadly tone and in that moment he remembers how dangerous Clint really is, how skilled with violence, and how if Phil confronts him now there’s a very real chance that in his anger and his fear Clint could kill Phil, which would destroy Clint, and Phil does the hardest thing he’s ever done in his life. 

He lets Clint go. 


	8. Chapter 8

Clint’s still wound up when he gets to his room at the barracks, it was almost a blessing not having his bike, he’s in no condition to ride. Unfortunately the cab ride over hadn’t been enough for him to cool off. He tosses his duffle by his locker and sets Phil’s book gently on his desk. He kind of wants to burn the thing but it obviously holds sentimental value to Phil and mad as he is he isn’t going to damage something that important to the man. 

He had debated on heading to one of his safe houses but he’s not willing to run that far, not yet. That fight had been a bad one but Phil hadn’t said, _‘If you walk out that door don’t come back,’_ like every other dom who had pushed Clint too far and Clint’s options had become an unacceptable amount of violence or walking away.

No. He had said, _‘Come back,’_ and _‘please’_. 

Clint’s in no position to look at what that does to him. 

Especially not the way Phil saying, _‘Please,’_ makes him feel. 

He strips to his boxers in jerking motions complaining about archaic rules and setting submissive progress back thirty fucking years before setting his knives, putting away his ears, crawling into bed, and turning out the lights.

After about an hour of tossing and turning he switches on the reading light and grabs the book, flipping through it. 

It’s well written, Clint will give it that, though he snorts at the thought of calling his cock or asshole his ‘Most Precious Gift’. It seems to be both a noun and used as a synonym for fucking, and he smirks every time he sees it. For something written in the twenties _Submission_ is surprisingly risqué. 

It falls open to a section called the Thirteen Classical Positions of Submission Every Proper Submissive Should Know. There are pictures next to the descriptions and, yeah, Clint can see how they could be a little hot. 

He wonders what he’d look like in them. 

Posing for Phil. 

No! Fucking hell, what is _wrong_ with him.

Still… he wonders. 

Clint stands up and stretches, setting the book open on his desk; a little exercise might help blow off some steam, work some of the adrenaline and whatever out of his skin, and help him get to sleep. 

Besides, he is curious. 

He slides the desk chair up under the doorknob as an added layer of security to the locked door. As far as he knows, only Fury and Hill (and now Phil, but if he were going to chase after Clint he would have done it by now) have the override code but it makes him feel better. 

After a moment's hesitation he throws his boxers on top of the small pile of clothes next to his bag.

He bites his lip, rubbing the back of his ear, and then puts his aids back in, turning up the gain a little so he can hear if anyone is in the hallway outside the door. 

Okay. First up: Stand. 

Easy enough, that’s just feet hip width apart and hands loose at his side. 

It feels different than he expects but then he’s never just stood in place while naked. 

He reaches up and touches the collar with his fingertips, then runs them over the tag, feeling the bumps and ridges of SHIELD’s stylized eagle.

Mostly naked. 

And it’s not like Clint has a problem with nudity, he’s ended up in more than one firefight in the buff, an enemy thinking to find him vulnerable in the shower or (and you would think he would have learned his lesson the first time) in bed with him after a night of passion, thinking him too broken to defend himself; once surprising him while he was making love to a sweet ady girl. 

A redhead, if he recalls correctly. 

He always has had a thing for redheads and he had hoped the experience would open him to a world without submission, that maybe deep down he was a switch, but in the end he had just felt uncomfortably hollow. 

He can have satisfying sex, in fact prefers it, without submission as long as there’s still bondage or pain; and he can only truly submit if there’s enough of both to get him out of his head but he always hates how he feels after submitting, weak and vulnerable and… small. 

His fantasies are something else; he’s never been able to picture himself as the perfect sub, even his prodigious imagination can’t go that far, but he can imagine that submitting doesn’t have to be a fight, that it’s like the movies, that he can get there by doing what his dominant wants, because he wants to please them, because he wants to… _be good_. 

He tries the modified versions of Stand. 

Wide; he steps out into a wider stance. 

Then Spread. 

No, no he isn’t doing that. 

Except who will know except him?

There's no illustration and the language is flowery, but it’s not too difficult to picture.

He takes each of his hands and pulls his asscheeks apart feeling ridiculous.

And, okay, a little turned on. 

He tries it with his legs back at hip width apart.

It doesn’t help.

Number two: Attention; he brings his legs close together and crosses his wrists at the small of his back. This one isn’t too bad either. Clint’s done enough work with paramilitary (and a handful of times, military) organizations for it to mostly feel comfortable, only a little put off by crossing his wrists instead of his hands. 

Wide with this one is also easy, but the two Spreads are even more uncomfortable when moving his hands from wrists crossed behind him than when his hands start at his sides. 

Three: Inspection. 

This one is pretty simple, too, legs just a bit more than hip width apart, toes angled out slightly, fingers linked behind his neck. He likes the way this one shows off his arms, chest, and abs; he preens a little in the mirror above his desk. Moving to Wide draws attention to his muscular thighs as well which is even better and Spread is a little easier in this one and he smirks at himself even as he separates his asscheeks, exposing his hole to the room again, his cock has been making its presence known since he called Phil ‘Sir’ for real and it’s becoming hard to ignore. 

The fourth one, Bend is almost like a punishment for his cockiness as he stands with his legs wide and bends over to grab his ankles. Spread is easier to do in the basic stance, but easier to take with his legs in Close, even though the stretch is deeper. 

Okay. That’s enough of that. What’s next… he turns the page; Sit.

Okay, he isn’t doing this on the floor. It’s kept military clean by maintenance but he’s still not putting his bare ass on it. 

Clint moves the book to his pillow and reads, ‘ _To meet proper classical standards, a submissive sits with their legs together and to one side, weight towards the opposite hip, one hand on floor palm down to assist in supporting their weight, their other arm resting loosely on their upper leg. Variation B (fig 5B) is also acceptable but requires more developed abdominal muscles (a submissive must take special care to not over develop these as they are at risk of too much muscle definition; a submissive’s belly should remain soft and supple, hard muscles are a Dominant’s dominion),’_ Clint frowns, yeah, yeah, he’s a bad sub, he fucking knows. 

He continues reading, _‘… shifting their weight slightly back to center and leaving their other arm loose at their side or resting it demurely in their lap (being careful to not obstruct their Most Precious Gift from their Whiphand’s gaze).’_

He looks over the illustration, having to double check it a couple times before folding his body into position. 

It’s… not awful. He could see it being easy to keep. He shifts to Variation B and it’s pretty comfortable. He notices he subconsciously let his hands drift to cover his achingly hard cock and forces them back in position. 

Alright, it might take a little practice. 

Six: Kneel.

He takes a breath and swallows. Getting serious now. 

He sits up on his knees, ass on his heels, the tops of his feet flat on the bed, his toes softly pointed. He spreads his legs to a forty five degree angle, crossing his wrists behind him and bowing his head. 

His cock lifts up even higher between his legs as he holds the position and he has to remind himself to keep his breathing deep and even.

Hand Variation B; he rests his hands palm down on his thighs. 

Hand Variation C; palms up on his thighs. He shivers. This one feels almost too good, and his hand twitches toward his cock before he restrains himself.

He tries Wide with each of the three hand positions, spreading his knees as far as possible. It feels awkward and he looks over to the mirror behind the desk and blushes.

He brings his legs in so that it looks less like he’s trying to do the splits while on his knees. 

Okay, so that doesn’t look awkward. 

In fact, it looks… kind of hot. 

He eases his legs back to the more neutral forty five degree angle for the Basic version of number seven, Offering, bowing his head a little lower than in the picture to make up for his height and holding his hands together, palms up over his head. 

He looks over to the mirror and scowls, adjusting his back, head, and arms. Matthew made it look so fucking easy, natural even, and his impression of the submissive goes up another notch. Making this look that graceful must have taken years of practice. 

It takes him a bit of squirming but he gets there eventually. Once he has it the Wide variation is easy. 

He debates skipping eight, Obeisance, but it’s not like they get easier from here and in for a penny, in for a pound. 

He brings his knees in slightly and his cheek to the bed. He’s low enough now that he can’t see himself in the mirror but it doesn’t feel as bad as he was afraid of. 

_‘It might feel as good as I was afraid of,’_ he thinks as he crosses his wrists at the small of his back.

He quickly stretches his arms out for Variation A (‘Low Obeisance’), arms long and palms down, and B (‘Lowest Obeisance’, ‘ _reserved for when a submissive must display their deepest humility to their Whiphand’),_ forehead on the bed and palms up before sitting up and shaking off the feeling of being more vulnerable than anything that’s come before, quickly turning the page. 

Down, number nine, is on his stomach, careful of his throbbing cock, cheek on the bed, arms crossed behind his back at the wrist, legs spread, with the Close variation bringing his legs together and crossing his ankles. He’s still not a fan (liar) of crossing his wrists like this, and crossing his ankles makes him feel even more helpless, but it is getting easier. 

Spread for this one is harder, especially with his ankles crossed, and he feels SHIELD’s surprisingly high quality sheet under him get damp from the tip of his cock. 

He whispers, “Fuck it,” and lets himself thrust a couple times into mattress and moans. 

Fucking hell that’s good. 

He rolls over for the tenth position, Back, his legs spread and his wrists crossed over his head; his cock curves up towards his belly button and he leaves his left hand in place as he uses his right hand to stroke his cock for a bit.

Maybe he should forget this. Jack off to something other than the thought of posing for Phil, of submitting to Phil as if it were easy, natural, so different from his fantasies of Phil _making_ him submit.

No. No, he wants to see this through.

Close is fine, but Spread means leaving his legs parted and bending his knees, bringing his feet flat on the bed and rocking his hips up and he moans a little, imagining Phil watching him with lust and pride. 

“Fuck,” he strokes his cock a couple more times. 

It’s not actually wrong to fantasize about Phil anymore, now that he’s Clint’s whiphand, right? 

No, no it is wrong. 

Phil didn’t choose this, he got stuck with it, it’s not his fault no one else wanted to have to try to dominate such an obviously terrible submissive.

And to fantasize about Phil when Clint isn’t willing to put out is just rude. 

But he had no self control when it came to his dirty thoughts about Phil before now and even though it feels even more fucking wrong than before he can’t help himself. 

_‘Hands off your cock, Clint,’ Phil tells him sharply, in that voice that_ does _something to Clint, then follows it with a soft, “Good boy_ (dirty/wrong/bad, he knows better than this),” _when Clint obeys._

_‘Fours, please,’ Phil’s voice is still soft but it has a core of command as he demands Clint move into the eleventh position._

Clint gets on his hands and knees, his legs comfortably apart.

 _‘Good boy_ (it’s just a fantasy, he knows it’s just a fantasy) _. Now Wide.’_

He spreads his knees with a whimper.

Would Phil comfort him then, his strong hand stroking down Clint’s back, or reprimand him with a sharp word, or maybe a slap on his ass?

Which would Clint prefer?

Afraid of the answer, Clint turns the page. 

Twelve: Present.

Staying up on his knees, he lowers his cheek to the bed, unhappy with how choppy the movement is he tries over and over again until it feels smooth. Then he tries it with crossing his wrists at the small of his back first and shivers. 

He desperately wants to stroke his cock but Fantasy Phil is still standing over him, judging him and he wants to be good. He knows he can’t be, that’s not him, but he can pretend; it’s his fantasy and imagining the impossible is what fantasies are for. 

Feeling that it’s not quite right, he adjusts his balance until it feels more natural, like it’s something he could hold for hours if he had to. Spread with Close is a little difficult to master as well but with a bit of practice he could get there. 

_Fuck_. He wants to cum but he’s almost through the list. 

He’ll let himself get off as soon as he’s done. 

Spread when his knees are apart is good; _so_ good. He moans, “ _Phil_.”

And then thinking, _‘Fantasy’_ tries a tentative, “Sir.”

Oh, _better_ , and he does it again adding, “Please, Sir.”

He shivers and he feels his hole tighten and his cock bounce underneath him. 

It’s not that he’s never called Phil ‘sir’ before, just never like this. SHIELD is paramilitary enough that ‘sir’ and ‘ma’am’ are common throughout the ranks, it’s only with that verbal twist, making it the ‘Sir’ or ‘Ma’am’ that’s only used by a submissive to a dominant and, unless they’re being especially polite, usually only to their whiphand. 

_‘Or if they're being a smart ass,’_ Clint thinks.

Actually, wait. He had said it for real in Phil’s office earlier today, hadn’t he? It had stirred something in him then, too.

“Please, Sir,” he tries again and that feels so good even as the wrongness of it shivers through him.

Clint doesn’t _submit_. Not like this. 

Clint has to be wrestled down, dominated through strength or pain until he’s pinned or bound by leather, rope, or steel; he has to be _made_ to submit. 

But here, in his most secret fantasies, he wants to push his limits. He wants to try. 

For Phil.

He loses himself in it. 

He stays there, his cheek pressed into the mattress, his ass high and his hole exposed.

 _Clint’s on Phil’s bed, open and vulnerable as Phil stalks around him, looking at him from every angle. He taps the inside of Clint’s thighs with the tip of his riding crop and_ Clint spreads his knees a little wider _, ‘Good boy.’_

“Thank you, Sir,’ it’s almost dizzying to think of Phil as his ‘Sir’. 

_He hears Phil’s zipper._

He wants to turn and look; he’s caught sight of Phil in the locker room but only out of the corner of his eye, he’s never looked, and he wonders what Phil’s cock looks like hard.

Hard for _Clint_.

_‘Close your eyes, sweetheart,’ Phil says in that rich dark tone that Clint could fall in love with._

Clint shuts his eyes, the barracks disappear as he sinks further into his fantasy. 

_‘You’re beautiful like this Clint,’ Phil says and Clint shakes his head,_ he knows he’s not, he’s too big, all hard planes and cut muscles, strength wrapped around steel, nothing like what a submissive should be _, ‘Don’t argue with me,” Phil slaps his ass,_ rocking Clint forward.

“Yes, Sir. I’m sorry, Sir,” fuck it feels good to say; why does it feel so fucking _good_?

_‘Keep holding yourself open for me, gorgeous, just like that. Show me your pretty hole. I want you to wait for me, are you waiting?’_

“Yes, Sir.”

_‘I’m not going to fuck you—‘_

No. No, Phil wouldn’t say fuck.

But what the hell, it’s Clint’s fantasy, right?

_‘I’m not going to fuck you, you haven’t earned my cock yet, have you, Clint?’_

Clint blinks away the sudden sting of tears. Fuck that hurts; even though it isn’t real, it hurts so good, “No, Sir, I don’t deserve your cock. I haven’t earned it. I don’t deserve you.”

_‘That’s okay, honey, I know you’re trying. You are, aren’t you? You’re trying to be a good boy for me?’_

Except he isn’t, he hadn’t. He hadn’t even tried. He had just gotten mad and stormed out like the fucking brat he is.

“I’m sorry, Sir, I’m sorry.”

‘ _You know I have to punish you.’_

“Yes, Sir.”

‘ _But first I’m going to cum all over your back. Your ass. Over your hole. Push it inside you. I’m going to mark you up,_ claim _you. I’m going to rub my cum into your skin so you smell like me, so you know that you’re mine.’_

“Please? Please, Sir? Please cum on me, make me yours? I’ll be good, I’ll be good I promise, please, please cum on me?” He shudders at the way begging— not just begging, begging _Phil,_ makes him feel. 

_‘You’re perfect, Clint, strong and beautiful and_ mine!’ _Phil comes with a shout, his warm cum striping Clint’s back and ass, coating his skin, falling against his exposed hole._

Clint’s arms are shaking, he wants to let go of his ass, to gather his whiphand’s cum with his fingers and taste it, to rub it into his skin, to take it in his palm and wrap his hand around his cock and stroke himself off until he’s cumming too, but he’s trying to be Phil’s good boy so he stays in place trembling with the effort but knowing it’s worth it, not just to be a good sub, but to be good for _Phil_.

 _Fuck._ Just the thought of it is almost enough to make him cum untouched. 

_‘Stay just like that, sweet boy,’ Phil is as good as his word, massaging his cum into Clint’s skin,_ Clint groans in pleasure, pushing up to meet Phil’s hands _until Phil slaps his ass, ‘None of that. Behave. Your punishment is already going to be bad enough as it is.’_

“Sorry, Sir, I’m sorry!” God, if Clint doesn’t get his hand on his cock he’s going to fucking _die_ but he can’t, he’s being good; he can do this, he can be a good boy, Phil believes in him; he trusts Clint to be good and so Clint _can_ be good.

_Phil uses his thumb to push his cum into Clint’s hole, not intentionally hitting his prostate but not missing it either and the casual indifference to Clint’s pleasure is almost more than Clint can bear._

Clint starts to push his ass back, wanting more of Phil’s thumb in his hole, but he stops himself. 

_‘Be good,’_ he thinks. 

“Please, Sir, please let me cum for you?” He shivers as the words fall from his lips.

‘ _Not yet, you can cum when you’re done taking your punishment.’_

“Then punish me, Sir, please punish me. I’ve been a bad boy,” _fuck_ does that twist something inside him, even more than calling Phil ‘Sir’, shame and lust and need tangling together in a pain that feels good and tears him apart at the same time, “And I need you to spank me.”

_‘Bring me my paddle.’_


	9. Chapter 9

Clint finally, _finally,_ lets his ass go, his arms feeling strange and disconnected from his body, his hole throbbing in time to his heartbeat. 

He looks over position thirteen, Punishment. Over Phil’s knees with his palms on the floor. This would press Clint’s hard and dripping cock against Phil’s leg where he can feel it and Clint shivers. 

He closes the book and sets it aside. He stands and takes three steps backwards from the bed before turning and getting to his knees as he pulls the lube from his bag, packed away with all his other things this morning. 

He crawls from his bag to the side of the bed and here in his private fantasy where he refuses to let reality intrude it isn’t demeaning, it’s sensual, like nothing he’s ever known. He Kneels, legs at the proper forty five degree angle, head bowed until his chin is level with the bed; he kisses the bottle, substituting it for the paddle in his mind, then Offers it up on his palms.

_‘Good boy. Up and over, sweetheart. I want you to count them out,’ Phil says._

“How… how many, Sir?” Clint asks, pushing down his embarrassment at being on his knees, his head still bowed; afraid it will be too much, afraid that it won’t be enough.

_‘As many as it takes.’_

Clint moans and climbs up on the bed; leaning his back against the wall he spreads his knees, feet flat on the bed, and tilts his hips up. 

_‘Like Spread Back,’_ he thinks, and moans again. 

He warms up some lube between his fingers and then gathers a big glob of it on his thumb, he closes his eyes and imagines its Phil’s cum, Phil’s thumb as he pushes it into Clint’s tight, tight asshole, not quite hitting, not quite missing his prostate just like he imagined and it hurts a little, the stretch of it with no prep, but he deserves it for running out on Phil like that, for making him worry, _‘God, Phil,’_ he thinks and as soon as he’s done he should text Phil and let him know he’s alright, that Clint will see him in the morning and they can try to talk again, but for now, for now it’s Phil’s thumb in his ass, pushing his cum in, marking Clint up, _claiming_ him, not just for SHIELD, not just for his punishment, but forever and it’s so good and so wrong he wants to fucking cry. 

He reaches for his cock with his other hand, _Phil bats it away, ‘No! You don’t get to touch yourself until you’ve taken your punishment, now get over my lap or you’ll get twice as many._

Clint slips his thumb from out of his ass, immediately feeling it’s loss, wet and open and yearning for Phil’s cock. He rests the the back of his wrists on the inside of his knees, and the fantasy changes, the way that fantasy’s do, and it’s an old favorite with a slight modification, now instead of being punished for flirting with another dominant in front of Phil, or for his creative reports, or some other made up infraction, this is a punishment for real, for something he truly regrets. 

One he’s begged for. 

One he deserves. 

_Clint keeps himself hairless for Phil, leaving only the drunk hedgehog that’s his failing attempt of a hairstyle on the top of his head and his eyebrows, a shade of brown just a bit darker than his golden hair; his skin is smooth and tan except the barely there white band starting below his hip bones and ending at the top of his thighs. He’s naked below the waist, wearing a creamy shirt with French cuffs, cufflinks matching his tag with its single, not double, line around the edge, framed at his throat by the top buttons of the shirt being undone. Phil’s mark is two concentric circles with a solid five pointed star etched in the center on a deep blue background. Clint’s seen it on Phil’s cufflinks, seemingly plain, but elegant in its simplicity, a mark of dominance kept in check, just as his will leashes Clint’s wild nature._

_Over the shirt is a dark jewel toned purple corset vest with tiny black buttons up the center and in his imagination he doesn’t look awkward in the submissive attire, he’s sensual._

_Desirable._

_Phil’s._

Fuck, he’s going to hell.

 _He climbs over Phil’s lap and rests his palms flat on the thick cream carpet of Phil’s bedroom; he thrusts his dick against Phil’s leg, once, twice,_ Clint strokes his cock in time with the fantasy and moans at how good it feels, his eyes nearly flutter open, _stopping at the stinging sharp slap of Phil’s hand on his ass._

“I’m sorry, Sir.”

_‘Behave.’_

“Yes, Sir.”

God. Phil. _Sir._

_“Now, do you think you deserve a warm up?”_

“No, Sir.”

_‘Clint.’_

“No, Sir, I don’t deserve a warm up. I’ve earned my punishment and I’ll take it like a good boy,” Clint ignores the sick little twist he gets every time he tries to think of himself as a ‘good boy’, “Thank you for showing me my place, Sir. Thank you for giving me what I need,” _Clint let’s the tears that well up drip down his face unimpeded._

 _‘Good boy, Clint, very good boy,’_ Clint is starting to like the way it hurts, _‘Now, if you lose count we’ll have to start over but you won’t lose count, will you my sweet boy?”_

Clint’s sigh is almost a sob, “No, Sir.”

_‘Then let’s begin.’_

_The first one is a shock and_ he gasps but manages a measured, “One, Sir… Thank you, Sir,” taking time to imagine the sting, the heat, that thrill of pain, the way his ass clenches after each one causing his cock to bob, _his cock pressing into Phil’s leg, his precum making a wet spot on Phil’s slacks and Phil can feel exactly what he’s doing to Clint, and Phil likes it. The next five Clint takes stoically, until the eighth one causes him to stumble._

 _The second is slightly easier to take than the first,_ “Two, Sir… Thank you, Sir.”

 _The third starts to burn;_ he has to steel himself against moving, against moaning and embarrassing himself in front of Phil, “Three, Sir… Thank you, Sir.”

“Four, Sir… Thank you, Sir,” each ‘Sir’ dragging him further and further under. 

“Five, Sir… Thank you, Sir.”

“Six, Sir… Thank you, Sir.”

“Seven, Sir… Thank you, Sir.”

His breath catches on the next one, _“_ Ei—Eight, Sir… Thank you, Sir.” 

_Phil pauses and rubs his ass gently with the paddle, ‘You’re doing very well, honey,’ and his words are kind but, like the six before it, the next swat of the paddle is not. Clint’s ass is starting to really heat up and it’s slowly easier to take more pain, which only means Phil increases the strength of his blows._

“Nine, Sir,” Clint says, wincing as he flexes, “Thank you, Sir.”

He imagines the next one, and the next, and the next. _Phil is slow, methodical; unrelenting. Never speeding or slowing, just giving Clint what he needs, strike after strike._

“Ten, Sir… Thank you, Sir,” Clint’s wince becomes tighter.

“Eleven, Sir… Thank you, Sir,” his shoulders become tense.

He lets out a truncated gasp, _this one hurts significantly more and_ Clint flexes his ass hard enough that it comes up off the bed, his cock bouncing up to leave a smear of precum on his stomach, “Hh, twelve, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

Fuck, he wants to touch his cock more than anything, but he’s being good, he can be _good._

_Phil rubs his ass with the paddle again for a few seconds and Clint feels some of his tension ease. Then Phil brings the paddle down just as hard as before._

“Hh, thirteen, Sir… Thank you, Sir,” they would really start to hurt now as Phil starts hitting harder and harder and as he concentrates it’s almost as if he can really feel it. 

“Hhuh, fourteen, Sir… Thank you, Sir.”

“H-hhuh, fi-fifteen, Sir,” he cries imagining the sweet, sweet pain, his cock an insistent ache between his legs, “Th-thank you, Sir.”

There’s more of that gentle rubbing as Clint pants, catching his breath and he wishes Phil would just get the fuck on with it and beat him like he really deserves, but he knows that isn’t Phil’s style. 

Clint sniffs back tears that only exist in his imagination and asks Phil tentatively, “Sir?”

_‘You don’t decide when you get the next one, Clint. I do.’_

Clint nods, “Yes, Sir.”

_‘Don’t worry, I’ve promised to give you what you need, haven’t I?”_

Clint sniffs again and brings up the back of his arm and rubs his still closed eyes against it before returning it in place, the back of his wrist balanced on his knee, he flexes up, showing off his cock, his hole, shiny with Phil’s cum, marked by Phil, _owned by Phil._

“Yes, Sir. I belong to you, Sir. I trust you,” and Clint realizes he truly believes it. He’s tempted to get dressed and take his bike back to Phil’s to beg for his forgiveness, for an actual punishment but he knows that’s not how the real world works. 

Tomorrow he’ll go home with Phil and he’ll clean Phil’s shoes and press his cheek to Phil’s foot (Kneel and Obeisance) and he’ll sleep naked in Phil’s bed. He promises himself he’ll find a way to give everything to Phil without losing himself, somehow. 

It will only be temporary, Phil will find him a real whiphand eventually, he’s too good at what he does not to, but in the meantime Clint will be his and Clint swears he will cherish their time together for the rest of his fucking life.

For now? For now he has this fantasy.

_‘Good boy, that was fifteen,’ Phil says, reminding Clint even though he doesn’t need to, Clint’s kept count, Phil told him to and so he will, it’s just that simple._

_Sixteen hurts more than the others, either because his ass is starting to get tender or because of his rising emotions he can’t be sure, but he obediently says,_ “Sixteen, Sir… Thank, you, Sir.”

He grits his teeth against making a sound on the next one, “Seventeen, Sir… Thank you, Sir.”

And the next, “Eighteen, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

He tries to hide his broken off whine as he forcefully says, “Nineteen, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

He knows he fails to hide it on the next, “Mh, twenty, Sir, thank you, Sir.”

“Mhnh,” the whine is now clear in his voice, “Twenty one, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

 _There's no gentle circles from the paddle now, only bright and perfect pain,_ “Twenty two. Sir. Thank you. Sir.”

“Oh! Twenty three, Sir, thank you, Sir.”

_‘Clint,’ Phil reprimands him gently, reminding him to take his time. Phil won’t be rushed and trying to push him or manipulate him will only result in a longer punishment._

“I’m sorry, Sir,” Clint says, his breath coming shallowly, his lips trembling.

_Phil rests his hand on Clint’s glowing ass, ‘I know, sweetheart, and you’re doing so well for me,’ he doesn’t rub this time but his hand is still a comfort._

“Mmf, please,” he whispers, _then hopes Phil didn’t hear it,_ he carefully counts it properly, “Twenty three, Sir… Thank you, Sir.”

“Uuh! Twenty four, Sir… Thank you, Sir,” _he’s openly crying now,_ his breath coming in little catches.

“Uh-uh. Twenty five, Sir… Th-thank you, Sir.”

“Please!” He doesn’t hide his need this time, rolling his hips, thrusting into the air— no _into Phil’s leg,_ “Thank you, Sir, twenty six, Sir… Thank you, Sir.”

 _Phil doesn’t bend, breathtaking in his merciless mercy,_ “Sir! I can’t—,” Clint aborts the movement of his hand towards his cock, “T-twenty seven, S-sir… Thank you…”

 _Phil continues spanking him, not breaking his rhythm,_ ‘That one doesn’t count,’ _then another, not pausing, not giving him extra time to respond,_ ‘They only count when you do them right,’ _he spanks Clint again_ and Clint almost shouts, “Twenty seven, Sir… Thank you, Sir.”

 _‘Good boy,’ Phil says and hearing it hurts just as good this time as it has every time before_ and Clint moans.

“Twenty eight, Sir. _Please—_ Thank you, Sir.”

 _‘Close, sweetheart, close,’ Phil says as he brings the paddle down hard enough that Clint’s going to be feeling this tomorrow_ and he should, he can’t believe he ran out on Phil like that.

“Uh-uh— sorry, Sir. Twenty-nine, Sir… Thank you, Sir.”

“Mmmh! Thirty, Sir?” Clint asks, hoping it's enough, he isn’t sure how many more he can take and still keep his fucking composure, calling Phil ‘Sir’ like this driving him more out of his mind than the imagined spanking, reminding him of where he should be, who he should be with, “Thank you, Sir.”

“Uf-f-f, Th— I— Thirty one, Sir. Thank you! Thank you, Sir.”

 _‘Come on, sweet boy,’_ he can’t, he _can’t_. Clint shakes his head, silently begging for Phil to stop but he won’t, he promised to give Clint what he needs and he always keeps his promises, “Hhu-h-h-huh, Th-th-thirtytwoSir! M-m-m,” he continues to shakes his head ‘no’, but says, “Thank you, Sir!”

“Th-th— I’m sorry! I’m sorry, Phil,” he sobs, “I’m so, so sorry. Please,” Clint brings his knees in, folding his arms on top of them, the fantasy shattering around him; he pushes his eyes into his arm, crying out, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” 

Eventually, his breathing slows and he would end this here but he thinks about the things he knows about Phil, about what Phil would want, _Phil pulls Clint up sideways into his lap and kisses Clint’s tears away, ‘Well done, Clint, well done. I’m so proud of you,”_ Clint feels the tension flow out of his body, _“You were so brave for me my, good, good boy. I forgive you. I forgive you,’ he holds Clint tight and rocks him until all his tears are spent, ‘Good boy, Clint. Now why don’t we go to sleep, you’ve got a big day, tomorrow, don’t you?’_

“Yes, Sir,” Clint whispers out loud. He blinks his eyes open, surprised to find his lashes wet with real tears. He sits up and wraps his arms around his middle as his erection fades, the urge to jerk off gone, as though he’s reached some other, deeper, release. He debates putting on his boxers and pajamas to sleep like he usually does but instead just takes out his ears and puts them away before crawling under the covers and turning out the light. 

Sometime later, his phone flashes in the dark, buzzing from where it’s charging on his nightstand, which also vibrates the corner of Clint’s bed and he picks it up, blinking in the pale light; there’s only one person it would be this time of night. 

**I’m sorry.**

Phil must mean he’s sorry this didn’t work out, sorry for everything, that Clint has lost his fucking chance, that Phil has realized what a monumental challenge Clint is and even Phil can’t imagine actually being Clint’s whiphand.

Phil has given Clint a couple hours to cool off, hoping he would come back on his own. When Phil realizes that isn’t going to happen he texts, apologizing for giving Clint too much too soon, his heart in his throat and his relief overwhelming when Clint responds immediately, as if he has been waiting for Phil to make the first move, and Phil wishes he had done this sooner.

**Sry 2**

The three dots blink at him long enough that Clint starts to get concerned.

There’s so much Phil wants to say, he tries out three different replies before settling on:

**I’ll see you in the morning?**

Clint feels a wave of relief. Phil must have a plan for keeping Clint at SHIELD, maybe he’s thought of someone willing to at least pose as Clint’s whiphand. 

**🥞?**

**I wouldn’t miss it for the world.  
** **Good night, Clint.**

**🌃**

Phil smiles as he sets down the phone and promises himself they’ll find a way to make this work. 

It’s a very, very long time before Clint falls asleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m case it doesn’t come across, Clint’s texts at the end are a pancake emoji and then a cityscape night emoji.


	10. Chapter 10

It looks like Clint didn’t sleep any better than Phil had, so that’s some small consolation. 

Clint has a stack of pancakes the size of his head covered in a treefull of syrup. 

Phil sets down his fresh cut fruit and toasted whole grain bagel, “You’re going to put yourself in a diabetic coma one of these days.”

“Hey, if that’s the way I go, at least it’ll be doing something I love,” Clint says taking a bite so big that it puffs out his cheeks like a chipmunk. 

An adorable chipmunk. 

Phil waits until Clint swallows and looks down at his bagel as he spreads his light cream cheese, “About last night.”

“Do we have to?” Clint says, his tone guarded. He doesn’t want to do this here. Now. 

“We should talk.”

Clint looks down morosely at his pancakes, swirling a normal sized bite in the lake of syrup with his fork but not eating it; if Phil hadn’t already known how much he had hurt Clint, he does now.

Here’s where Phil tells him he’ll find Clint another whiphand, someone with lower standards who won’t mind that Clint’s untrained, frigid, and rude; one better equipped to deal with a bad sub. 

That’s Phil’s super power after all. Finding the right handler for the job. 

“I should have never implied that you aren’t a good sub, it— I didn’t mean it that way but once I cooled off I can see how it looked from your perspective and I’m sorry.”

Clint looks up, startled.

“I— what?”

“There’s nothing wrong with not being classically trained. If you would like, we could go through the book together, start slow; maybe set up some practice exercises, start running through the Thirteen Positions?”

He hides his panic as he flashes back to the complete fucking spectacle he had made of himself last night. Clint can’t believe he did that and then has the gall to sit across from Phil as if nothing’s changed.

_Everything’s changed._

Clint feels his stomach sink and he can tell he’s headed into a drop but there’s fuck all he can do about it now. 

He’s such a fucking creep. 

And it hadn’t even been a normal fantasy where he jerks off to Phil smacking him around.

_‘You were so brave for me my, good, good boy. I forgive you.’_

Jesus, what’s wrong with him. 

And he had thought that in the light of day he was just going to, what, see Phil and immediately Kneel for him? 

Crawl and beg?

Become his mother?

No, he isn’t ready for this; to be Phil’s little Stepford Submissive, to give up his identity to a whiphand, any whiphand, not even Phil. For all his promises to himself about submitting completely to Phil, it was the heat of the moment; he can’t fucking do it. 

So he does what he does best. 

He runs. 

“Please excuse me, Sir,” Clint says politely, not really seeing Phil, or his breakfast, or even the cafeteria. 

He has to get back to his room before he collapses. If he can lock himself in and squeeze into the space between his nightstand and desk with his favorite knife he can power through this ridiculous case of sub drop and then he can try to have a conversation like a rational human being and not some weak willed little sub.

Phil waits to hear what Clint has to say, his use of Phil’s honorific soothing some of the rough edges from his long night, but instead Clint stands up with unnaturally stiff movements and walks away. 

_Again._

Phil’s ready to shout after him, Clint can’t just keep walking away anytime they need to have a serious discussion about his submission, but he sees Clint throw out his breakfast and realizes whatever’s going on in his head runs deeper than Phil had imagined. 

~~~

Phil doesn’t get a chance to speak to Clint, Hand’s operation in Veracruz goes sideways and Clint’s on a plane to Mexico before Phil can get a word in edgewise.

~~~

“Excuse me?” Clint starts to touch his BTE but aborts the action before his fingers can do more than twitch at his side. 

It’s not that he didn’t hear Phil. 

It’s that he did.

“I said, I’m giving you forty with the cane for recklessly endangering your life,” the only thing more intense would be the whip, but Phil is trying to be reasonable here.

For a second, Clint’s about to go on the defensive but he’s learned a few things about Phil Coulson and one of those is that he’s honestly willing to listen and will even change his opinion when given enough evidence, even when angry. 

And, boy, is he angry. 

Clint can’t remember _ever_ seeing Phil this coldly furious. 

Clint doesn’t get the big deal, so there was a little collateral property damage— okay, a lot but he had cleared the building and the only one who had been at risk was himself and besides, that’s why God invented grappling hooks. 

Sure he had had to threaten Hand, something he usually only has to resort to with Garrett, but she was being ridiculous. Clint had made the best of a bad situation, not a single fatality after Clint got on the scene, they even got Johnson to the medevac in time to save his life (and that had been _a lot_ of fucking shrapnel), and he had ridden in on a high to Phil’s office, expecting praise. 

Not… this.

“They would have all died if I hadn’t,” he says, trying to be reasonable. He had stayed in the building long enough to distract the cartel’s ground troops to give Hand’s team time to get to the medevac on the roof that Clint had flown in on, making them think there was still a small army inside. He had managed to bait them into rigging the building to blow instead of storming it, which would have made Clint’s life impossibly more difficult and it hadn’t been exactly easy to shoot the grappling hook around the helicopter’s landing skid as it took off, leaping from the building just as it collapsed.

There’s no way in hell he’s letting Phil punish him for doing the right thing. 

He’ll walk before that happens. 

He doesn’t want to but he will. He has to set some boundaries now before he loses any more of himself. 

And for what? 

A fucking job?

(He knows it’s not really about the job. Or at least, not all about it.)

“You should have found another way.”

“That easy, is it? Okay. You come up with a better solution,” Clint says, waits a beat and then makes a buzzer noise, “Ehnt! Too late, now they’re _all_ dead.”

He knows that isn’t exactly fair, when you’re in the moment and adrenaline is pumping your reaction times are quicker; he wasn’t really trying to make his point but to get Phil’s attention and have him focus on the mission details and not his fucking feelings.

Clint can’t believe he ever thought the dom was a robot. Phil’s got more God damned emotions than a teenaged sub, he just does a better job of hiding them.

Clint flops down into one of the chairs in front of Phil’s desk and leans back on two legs. He crosses his arms and ankles as he props up the heels of his muddy boots on the edge of Phil’s desk. Oh, hey, there’s blood and other stuff he doesn’t want to think about on them, too. Gross. But, he can’t drop them now without ruining the effect. 

Besides if he’s getting a beating he wants it to be one he’s earned. Not that he’ll go down easy; he’ll fight Phil every step of the way. _If_ he submits it’s going to be on _his_ terms, not Phil’s, “Tell you what, take all the time you need. I don’t have anywhere to be until you clear the mission anyway.”

And that’s the part that really fucking burns, isn’t it? It’s not Phil asking him for insight on his judgment calls, that’s happened pretty regularly these three months with SHIELD, before that fucking test last Friday and everything going sideways. It’s the knowledge that instead of getting a note on his file as a reprimand or maybe some shit assignments if Phil disagrees with Clint’s call (which would be irritating on its own, seeing as this would be a fucking first), since he’s a submissive it will mean his whiphand _punishing_ him. 

_Phil_ punishing him. 

Because he ‘needs’ it.

It’s bullshit and it still floors him that Phil can’t see that it’s bullshit. For a perceptive guy, sometimes Phil can’t see for shit. 

Phil glares at Clint’s boots and then frowns when Clint smirks as if in doing so he’s played right into Clint’s hand, that Clint’s won a point in their ongoing contest of one-upmanship that had started in Managua. Clint lets his heels slip off the desk, though he keeps his chair tilted back and uncrosses his arms to bring his linked hands behind his neck. 

Phil has to catch his breath at the mixed signals he’s getting. In another sub, putting their hands behind their neck like that would be a show of submission but with the tilted chair and the smirk it’s all confidence.

No, not just confidence. 

_Dominance._

Phil’s not sure he likes that he likes it.

Clint raises an eyebrow and Phil turns his attention to the reports, flipping through them. 

Then flipping through them again.

Clint’s right, damn it. 

He made the right call. 

If Phil hadn’t gotten so upset at the thought of losing his subm— no, SHIELD’s submissive, it’s dangerous letting himself think of Clint as _his—_ if he hadn’t been so terrified over almost losing Clint he would have seen it but he’d read Hand’s mission summary first and had called in Clint without even thinking it through. 

And, yes, his main drive had been to not let any of Clint’s guilt fester but part of it had been that he had _wanted_ to punish Clint for being so reckless, to do something to keep him from doing anything like that ever again.

No. 

No, Phil has to be honest with himself. 

The part that had his hand reaching for his whip, that had Phil’s need to show his submissive his place roaring through his blood, was Hand quoting Clint, _“Forget the fucking collar, Vic, and forget Phil, God damn it. Get Johnson to the God damned chopper and give me an extra 5. You don’t see me you go. You’re going to let me do my fucking job or I will knock you out, throw you on top of Mark, and the rest of the team can hall both your asses out of here. This isn’t up for fucking debate. As far as anyone’s concerned I’m not a God damned submissive and I refuse to be treated like one. Go. Now!”_

Seeing the mottled bruising running from Clint’s left eye to his forehead, his temple smeared with blood from a hastily bandaged cut above his eyebrow hadn’t helped. 

Phil swallows down his shame; this isn’t the time or place to come to terms with his own insecurities. He rests his hands on his desk and offers sincerely, “I apologize, Agent Barton. I let my emotions get the better of me. If you’re willing, I’d like to get your thoughts on Agent Hand’s report?”

“It would be my pleasure,” Clint smiles and leans forward, bringing his arms and the chair legs down. So Phil can be taught. Good to know. 

Maybe he _can_ make this whole SHIELD thing work.

~~~

The debrief goes better than Clint expects, especially considering how it started. 

Clint’s really feeling the layers of grit and gross and is ready for a shower and a nap; he’s been up for the last thirty four hours straight and if it didn’t mean having to wake up smelling like an fucking abattoir he would consider skipping the shower. 

“If that’s all, boss, I’d like to go clean up and sack out.”

“Okay, let me wrap a few things up and I can work from home the rest of the day.”

“Oh,” Clint feels himself coloring, “I was— I was thinking I would just stay here tonight?”

“Again? I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“And yours is the only one whose opinions matter now, right?”

“Clint, I really want to talk about us but you’re exhausted; you’ve been running for four days straight. When was the last time you got any sleep?”

“It’s been a minute, hence the whole ‘going to pass out as soon as possible’ thing.”

“Then come home, let me bathe you and put you to bed.”

It’s tempting to go home with Phil, more than tempting, not that he’s ever going to let Phil _bathe_ him but even as chaotic as everything has been, he’s had a chance think and as much as his cock (or his heart, but that part he’s definitely _not_ let himself think about) may want to sit up and beg and whatever the fuck else for Phil, Clint knows better than to give in. 

If he lets himself lose his identity for Phil what will he do when Phil finally gets rid of him? How will he ever be able to put the pieces of his life back together?

No, for his own good— for both of their goods, really— he has to stay strong and only submit on his own terms.

“You gonna let me on the furniture?”

“While we’re at home it isn’t appropriate—”

“Then yeah, I’m sleeping here. Take it or leave it.”

“Clint,” Phil makes a pained sound, “Please, think about this. I don’t want to lose you— SHIELD doesn’t want to lose you,” and that’s just it, isn’t it? This is the only way for Clint to keep some sliver of the life he never knew he always wanted. 

And he’s willing to meet Phil halfway, he’ll live in Phil’s home and sleep on his couch. He’ll, he shudders, he’ll clean Phil’s shoes and press his cheek to Phil’s foot but there is only so much of his dignity he’s willing to sacrifice. 

When Clint remains silent, Phil says, “We have to be able to come to some sort of compromise. Please Clint?”

God dammit. 

There’s that fucking please again. 

It’s going to be Clint’s undoing. 

“I will sit on a cushion on the floor instead of the couch,” he’s actually done it before, sitting at the coffee table rather than risk getting pizza grease all over Phil’s expensive leather couch, so that shouldn’t be too big of a deal, “But I get a chair at the kitchen table. I’m not letting you hand feed me like I’m a dog begging for fucking table scraps—”

“Clint—”

Clint holds up his hand and Phil stops, “I’ll sleep in your bed but my pajamas stay on,” as soon as Phil is asleep he can go crash out on the couch, he’s a light enough sleeper he can be back in Phil's bed before he knows anything is up, “I’m not fucking you just because I’m submitting. Non negotiable,” he remembers how Garrett has brought up memories of his mother better left forgotten, “Oh, and no crawling.”

 _“This is submitting?_ ” Phil thinks, but Clint has him over a barrel and he can tell Clint’s serious. He closes his eyes and nods, then opens them, “Boxers, not pajamas, and I get to hold you for an hour before we go to sleep. You may not believe me but you _need_ skin on skin contact. You’ll see. I promise.”

Clint frowns, about to say ‘no’ but stops himself. Phil is trying. 

“I safeword, you stop?” He asks, not really believing Phil will, knowing he’s probably going to have to hurt Phil and committing himself now to backing up his safeword by whatever means necessary, no matter how fucking hard it may be.

“Of course,” Phil says, not sure if it hurts more that Clint thinks he has to have a safeword for cuddling, or that Phil might not honor it, “I have conditions too. With the exception of eating at the table, sleepwear, and submitting sexually, you agree to make a good faith effort to learn high protocol.”

Clint smiles far too easily for Phil’s comfort and he realizes Clint has already made the decision to do so. He probably could have gotten Clint to sleep naked or Kneel at meal time (he recognizes with that ‘scraps’ comment hand feeding is a limit, possibly even more than submitting sexually) but he’s lost the opportunity. Maybe if he comes up with a reward system he can get Clint to start bending. 

Clint had downloaded _Submission_ to his phone on the trip out to Veracruz; he flipped through it during the few moments of downtime he had had and it actually wasn’t as bad as he thought. He refuses to go around with his mouth open or give Phil his _‘Submissive’s Kiss’,_ appealingly as the idea of sucking Phil off is, but most of it actually seems pretty doable. 

If silly. 

The fully nude photos for the updated version were also… inspiring, but he meant it, he can’t submit to Phil and let Phil fuck him. 

It would break him. 

“Deal,” Clint holds out his hand, wincing at the dirt and blood still stuck under his fingernails even though he’s washed his hands half a dozen times, his rough edges on display next to Phil's pristine manicure.

“Deal,” Phil says, shaking Clint’s hand and feeling a bit of hope for the first time,“Now about your punishment.” 

“My what!? But you said—”

“Not for Veracruz. For putting those disgusting boots on my desk.”

Clint smirks, “Oh. That.”

“Yes ‘that’.”

Looks like Clint will finally get to— ‘have to’ not ‘get to’’— feel Phil’s paddle but Phil surprises him, “Go kneel in the corner. Five minutes.”

That? That’s nothing. Except…

“What if someone comes in?”

“What if someone does?”

“Phil. Phil please. Something else. The paddle. Or, fuck, a cane, a whip. Punch me, whatever. But don’t humiliate me, please.”

“I would never punch you, Clint,” but that’s not what really has Phil drawing a back. He hadn’t thought of corner time as humiliating. It’s a lighter punishment than the paddle; lighter even than a hand spanking. He hadn’t seen it from Clint’s point of view, of his reputation, in a weird limbo status as everyone adjusts to the idea of him being a submissive (something Garrett certainly isn’t helping with but that’s a problem for another not too distant day). 

Clint’s pride means more to him that most people’s lives matter to them. 

Maybe more than _his_ life matters to him.

Phil is going to lock the door, it’s just a matter of whether or not he tells Clint that. He considers the fragile truce they’ve come to and says, “I’ll lock the door but you have to promise me you’ll seriously reflect on why this is a punishment. Five minutes,” Phil enters the key code on his computer, remotely locking the door.

“Go on,” he says, lifting his chin towards the corner when Clint hesitates, “The sooner you get it done, the sooner we can get you home.”

“Okay, but I’m taking my bike this time.”

“Are you sure it’s safe?”

“Yes. You know me Phil, I’m willing to risk my own safety but I wouldn’t ride if I was a danger to others.”

Clint’s right, and Phil’s seen footage of him putting an arrow through a carabiner and into the sleeve of a heroin trafficker from over nine hundred feet, just preventing her from falling to her death, after getting less than two hours of sleep a night for a week. True to his word, Phil has ensured that Clint has never been ordered to take a killshot.

He knows Clint isn’t anywhere near his limit. 

“Okay. I trust you,” and it is a measure of trust. Now that Phil is Clint’s whiphand— sealed with a handshake of all things, not even a kiss on the mouth or Phil’s hand; if Clint were to get in an accident Phil would be at fault, just like he’s responsible for all of Clint’s actions.

Clint swallows, then bends and takes off his (still gross) boots, and then his socks. He stands and crosses his wrists at the small of his back before taking three graceful steps back and turning to glide more than walk the last couple of steps to the cushion in the corner of Phil’s office, his textbook form earning a startled gasp from Phil.

He Kneels on the cushion, facing the corner, doing it properly. He lowers himself with languid grace in spite of the abuse he’s put his body through the last couple of days. His face aches through the OTC painkiller he’d been willing to take; a bit of rubble had caught him in a glancing blow just above his left eye but, hey, nothing’s broken this time so that’s another point in the fucking win column as far as Clint’s concerned. Ass resting lightly on his heels, his toes in a relaxed point, he spreads his knees and bows his head.

“I… I thought you didn’t have any formal training”

“Don’t.”

“Then how.”

“I saw Matthew, remember? And, uh, I may have downloaded _Submission_ and flipped through it in the lulls. Sir,” it’s so much better— worse— better really, calling Phil ‘Sir’ when Phil can hear him. 

Phil’s breath catches, then evens out. He had been afraid that after all this it would be fighting tooth and nail to get Clint to submit but if he’s this far along after just four days with only a book to guide him, not even considering what those four days have consisted of, this may be easier than Phil thought. 

Famous last words. 

Clint closes his eyes and takes a breath, “May I begin my punishment now, Sir?”

“I— yes. I’ll check on you in five minutes. If it becomes too much for you, what do you say?”

Clint rolls his eyes, safely hidden behind his eyelids, but keeps his tone respectful when he says, “Upshot, Sir.”

Phil uses the time to send a couple emails, letting Fury and Hill know he’s going to finish out the day at home and that he’ll see them on Monday, saving and closing out the files he’s been working on.

All the while peeking over at Clint, watching him continue to hold the position perfectly, reverently almost. Something heals inside Phil that had been torn and he suddenly feels like he can do this. 

_They_ can do this. 

At first all Clint can think of is that gasp of Phil’s and it takes everything Clint has to keep the smug look of satisfaction from his face that he so wants to indulge in but he had promised Phil to take this seriously. 

And he had known putting his dirty boots on Phil’s desk would upset him, he would see it as a sign of disrespect— hell, that had been the intent and Clint knows Phil deserves better than that. 

But as he thinks about it he realizes it was more than that. It was a taunt. He was trying to provoke a punishment he felt like he deserved. To prove something… but what?

That he’s still his own person?

Of course he is; he may fear losing himself in his submission but that’s his fucking problem, not Phil‘s. 

It’s unfair to assume that Phil wants to strip away his identity, his sense of self. Clint _knows_ him, knows Phil would never want that. 

There’s another component, too, and he has to resist squirming. He was blatantly trying to manipulate Phil into punishing him on Clint’s terms— had even been proud of it; trying to provoke Phil to violence, to prove that dominants are all the same underneath their pretty words. 

That was, again, unfair to Phil. 

It was also rude; if he needs or wants something from Phil he should have the courage and conviction to ask for it. 

And part of him _had_ felt the need to be punished— oh not for the op, he stands by his decisions in the field, but for his behavior Monday night and again on Tuesday morning. He’s still feeling guilty for that. 

Not initially walking away to cool off, that was the right call, he had been on the verge of doing something that would have destroyed this fragile thing they’re trying to build together. But he should have gone for a fucking walk and then gone back to try to discuss things. 

And then that fantasy— he feels himself blush— it had been wrong to fantasize about Phil like that, he had known it at the time and he had done it anyway. 

When he started dropping Monday morning, he should have told Phil he needed some space to think and set a time for them to discuss the night before in private.

He’s crying now, when did he start crying?

He isn’t overly emotional, he isn’t sobbing, but he does feel the tears on his cheek. Why?

Because he disappointed Phil?

No. No, because he disappointed himself. 

“That’s time, Clint,” Phil says softly.

Clint stands slowly and brings his hands forward, rotating his shoulders; they had already been a little sore from the jerk of the grappling hook but they aren’t too bad. 

Clint takes a breath and turns; he crosses his wrists back behind his back, standing at Attention. 

Phil’s jaw starts to drop but he recovers quickly.

It’s not that he’s never seen Clint cry; Clint tends to run high on emotion and is as free with his tears as he is with his laughter, willing to be vulnerable when watching a sad or touching scene in a movie, when comforting a distressed submissive, or seeing a story about a dog being reunited with its owner. 

But he’s never seen Clint cry like this. 

Phil sits on the couch and says, “Come here.”

Clint moves to stand in front of Phil, waiting for his next instruction.

“Sit, please.”

Clint starts to go to his knees and Phil catches his elbow, “Here on the couch, Clint. I’m sorry, I should have been clearer,” it’s just that it’s taking some getting used to, this submissive Clint; he’s sure if he had asked Clint to sit five minutes ago Clint would have sat on the couch without question. 

Clint sits next to Phil carefully.

“What did you do to earn your punishment?”

Expecting Clint to just say it was for putting his boots on Phil’s desk he’s surprised when Clint quietly says, “I was intentionally disrespectful, Sir. I wanted to upset you, to deliberately provoke you into punishing me, to see what you would do. It was manipulative and unfair to both of us. I should have had the integrity to ask you for what I needed. Part of me felt like I needed to be punished for not coming back Friday night after I had cooled off and for not asking for space to think Monday morning. I promise to not manipulate you into punishing me again and to let you know when I need time to work things through for myself.”

There’s more to it, of course, but the rest is too deep, too raw, and he knows Phil would understand the need to protect that part of himself. He also promises himself he’ll work on his own fucking issues, his inappropriate feelings and his insecurities; he doesn’t need to burden Phil with those. 

He’s done being unfair to his whiphand. 

He shivers and Phil pulls him in for a sideways hug.

“Very good, Clint, very, very good. I’m so proud of you. I forgive you. Thank you for trusting me with the Gift of your submission,” he tugs on Clint, pulling him into a real hug, in awe of not only Clint’s strength and beauty, but his insight, his honesty, and his open self awareness.

Clint takes a deep breath and sighs, he feels almost human again; a shower, some food, and some sleep will get him the rest of the way. He hugs Phil back, just one quick, tight squeeze before letting go, but it’s a real hug.

“Feeling better?”

“Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

 _‘One, Sir… Thank you, Sir,’_ Clint pushes down the memory of his fantasy and the blush that wants to come with it. The last thing he needs to do is embarrass himself or, even worse, Phil.

“Okay, let’s head out. Here, I had this made for you,” Phil pulls Clint’s apartment key from his key ring, “I’ll stop for Thai on the way home; you’ll get there before me so why don’t you hop in the shower and by the time you’re done food should be on the table.”

“Oh my God, you’re amazing. Thai Palace?”

“As if I would go anywhere else,” Phil says in mock offense as he stands up and holds a hand down to Clint, which he takes, standing up as well.

“Now go, I’ll see you soon— and Clint,” Phil says as Clint punches in the unlock code on the door’s keypad, continuing when Clint looks up, “I really am very proud of you.”

Clint blushes, looks down and away as he rubs the back of his BTE, before dropping his hand and bravely meeting Phil’s eyes, “Thank you, Sir,” and then he slips away like the wild-wind that he is.


	11. Chapter 11

Clint would live in Phil’s shower if he could. He has better water pressure than the barracks and it doesn’t have that faint funk and industrial cleaner smell. 

No, it smells like Phil’s piña coloda scones, which means Phil’s been stress baking and Clint feels a pang of guilt that he tries to swallow down. Phil has forgiven him but Clint still hasn’t been able to fully forgive himself. 

He should have apologized for hurting Phil, for scaring him by running away, but he hadn’t realized how deeply it had affected his dominant. 

At least the guilt isn’t as bad; his punishment really has helped. 

More than letting him get his thoughts in order, Phil had forgiven him, telling him, _‘Very good, Clint, very, very good,’_ and _‘I’m so proud of you,’_ and _‘I forgive you.’_

And he had meant every word. 

Remembering it Clint cries softy in the shower like a fucking 12 year old sub and not the nearly thirty year old submissive that he is. He isn’t sure if they’re tears of regret or relief.

Maybe a bit of both.

He comes out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam. He’s slipped on his nicest boxers and then, because he isn’t going to sit around Phil’s apartment in just his God damned underwear, his most comfortable pajama bottoms, the ones so warm and soft they feel like the steam billowing around him. He’s got on his favorite shirt to wear with them, a stretched out cotton tee worn just as thin as his pants, the purple concentric circles so faded and cracked they’re more a memory of the logo than an outline of what it used to be.

The smell of Thai food has overwhelmed that of sweet coconut, pineapple, and rum and he suddenly remembers he’s voracious. He’s at the kitchen table in one long stride, drinking half of his tom yum directly from the bowl before he’s even in his seat and finishing it one handed as he piles his plate high with rice, pad pri king, crispy basil chicken, drunken noodles, pumpkin curry, and massaman curry, all of his favorites. 

Ooh! Phil also got the spring rolls with the sweet chili sauce _and_ the salad rolls with hot spicy peanut sauce, steam and peanutty goodness rising from the little plastic dipping cup. 

He’s on his second plate when Phil says, “Clint. Slow down. It isn’t going anywhere,” and he finally lets himself take a breath. He ends up having most of a third plate, as well as the lion’s share of the soup— to be fair it’s mostly broth and mushrooms. 

Speaking of, he has his head propped up on his hand and is chasing one last floating mushroom, it’s a slippery little fucker but he’s gonna get it, if his fork will just start cooperating. 

“Clint. You’re only using one chopstick. Go to bed. I’ll clean up here and then work in the living room for a bit. Okay?”

“Hmmm, wha’?”

“Go. To. Bed.”

“Mmmkay. G'night Phil.”

Next thing Clint knows he’s dropping his aids on the nightstand and falling face first into the right side of Phil’s bed, the angled French doors on the far side of the bed letting in the late afternoon light, reflecting in the floor to ceiling mirror next to Clint’s, making the whole room warm and golden, and then blissful nothing.

Phil works for a couple hours and debates watching the game and letting Clint continue to sleep alone but he’s only human and the thought of Clint, naked except for his boxers, in Phil’s bed is more temptation than he can resist. 

He’s frustrated with Clint’s reluctance to submit sexually but given his history Phil’s willing to make allowances. If Clint needs Phil to take it slow Phil will take it slow.

He spares a moment imagining what it will be like when Clint is finally ready to give his Submissive’s Kiss and show that he fully accepts Phil as his whiphand.

In the meantime Phil will do everything he can to get Clint the proper training to be a submissive that any dominant would be proud to call their own. 

Not that Phil isn’t already as proud as he can be. After that apology today, with Clint so fearless and vulnerable, it was all Phil could do to not pull him into a kiss instead of a hug, to not put gentle pressure on his shoulders and push him to his knees so that Phil could feel Clint’s mouth around his cock.

In his pliable state he thinks Clint would have given him a slow and sloppy blow job and the only thing that had stopped Phil is that he wants Clint fully aware when he finally gives Phil his Kiss. 

He frowns when he gets to the bedroom with its rapidly deepening shadows and sees Clint on top of the covers, still in his pajamas. He has his cheek on the body pillow Phil uses to prop the other pillows up, his arms cradling the overstuffed, down filled monstrosity; proof to Phil that he’s right and that Clint is skin starved, that he needs to be cuddled. 

He forgives Clint for falling asleep still in his pajamas and he strokes Clint’s back soothingly as Phil gets him under the covers.

Phil changes into his own low slung silk pajama bottoms and slides in next to Clint. With soft murmurs Clint can’t hear and softer hands so that Phil won’t jostle him awake, he guides Clint’s hold from the pillow to Phil’s more solid warmth and feels something inside him settle in peace as a sleeping Clint sighs and nuzzles into the crook of Phil’s neck. 

As long as Clint’s able to give him this much, Phil’s willing to wait for him, for as long as it takes. 

~~~

Clint startles awake feeling strange and out of place, reaching for a knife that isn’t there, his mind going _‘danger-man-knife— missing! Wait, fuck, Phil?’_

He takes a breath. 

Right. 

Phil. 

He had been wrapped around Phil like a fucking octopus. 

How embarrassing. 

At least his flailing didn’t wake Phil. 

He’s grateful for Phil letting him sleep, for not waking Clint so that he could strip down to his boxers— though a little shocked that he had slept so deeply next to Phil, even as tired as he was.

He didn’t actually attack Phil when he woke up, so maybe this whole ‘sleeping together’ thing may work out after all. He’s going to have to see if he can get to sleep again tonight without his knife nearby; Clint’s not sure he will be able to do it without the drugging embrace of exhaustion but he’s even less sure that it’s safe to sleep next to Phil with it close to hand. 

He picks up his bag and his ears and ducks into Phil's en suite.

A few minutes later Clint comes out breath minty and hair half tamed by water; at least he doesn’t look like an anime character anymore, so it’s an improvement. 

Clint has a pair of butterfly bandages above his left eyebrow and his left eye is black, the bruise spreading up his temple to nestle up under the bandages and then further up to hide under his cowlick, but otherwise he’s in great shape. 

No cracked bones, no torn muscles, and barely any headache to speak of. The soreness in his arms is gone, all that grappling hook practice paying off, and the bruising is tender to the touch, not painful. He stands by his decision to skip Medical, the paramedics on the helicopter having confirmed he hadn’t gotten a concussion once they finished stabilizing Johnson. 

Clint has on his yellow mini running shorts and his phone strapped to his arm, already synced to his ears and debates waking Phil before leaving but he looks so peaceful sleeping Clint decides to let him be. 

He’ll probably be up in the next half hour or so on his own. Unlike Clint, Phil is a natural early bird and doesn’t sleep past seven, even on weekends; much to Clint’s horror. 

Normally Clint sleeps until noon when he’s not on call but sixteen hours at once is apparently his limit when he’s not on morphine. 

Clint is grabbing the leftover drunken noodles, pouring them into his mouth straight from the box instead of bothering with chopsticks, when he sees half a watermelon and some strawberries and has an idea. 

Clint sets the coffeemaker’s timer so that it will start brewing just before seven and cuts up the fruit and arranges it onto the plate in the shape of a chicken. He leaves a note saying he’s going for a run and will be right back by eight, approximating a calligraphed ‘C’ with extra curlicues as best he can with the cheap pen from who knows where, the logo rubbed off until all that’s left are the last few digits of a phone number. 

He folds the note in half and does a decent job making Phil’s name as fancy as the ‘C’ and sets the tent up by the chicken’s head, the scone beak pointing at Phil’s name.

He debates waiting the twenty minutes or so it will take for Phil to wake up but he wants to get back by eight and he’d really like to get in at least ten miles.

He takes one last peek into the bedroom and hears Phil make a small distressed sound and sees him frown. Clint takes a step in but Phil reaches out to the spot Clint had been in and grabs the body pillow and sounds content as he pulls it into a hug. 

Clint smiles and heads out, leaving his key on the counter where he set it last night after unlocking Phil’s front door and letting himself into the apartment. 

Phil will still be here when he gets back, so he won’t need it.

Clint thinks maybe he can start trusting that Phil might be here for him no matter what.

He gets downstairs and onto the sidewalk and takes in the bright sunshiny morning, pleased to find a light breeze playing in the verdant trees that line Phil’s street. 

Maybe he can get in 15 if he really works for it.

He smiles and sets the music to the big band playlist Phil had sent him and sets off, the sooner he goes, the sooner he can get home.

Yeah. 

Home. 

He likes the sound of that. 

~~~

Phil wakes up alone, something off. 

The warm body he had been holding has been replaced by a pillow. 

The apartment feels empty. 

Clint’s gone. 

No. 

No, Clint wouldn’t run again; he promised. He must be here, “Clint?” Phil sprints over to his bathroom, then the other, before standing in the center of the front room where he spins around and says hopelessly, “Clint?”

Then he sees Clint’s apartment key on the counter and his fear turns to anger. 

He _promised_. 

Clint promised he wouldn’t run away but apparently waking up in Phil’s bed had been too much and he was gone. 

_Again_.

That’s it, Phil has to punish him for it this time; maybe he should have made Clint come home Monday night and punished him for running then, or Tuesday morning before they got the call from Hand.

But he had let it slide and now look at where they are.

He can’t believe Clint would do this to him. 

To _them._

Phil won’t be able to punish him right away when he finds him; Clint needs to sit and think about what he’s done but more importantly Phil’s just too angry and if his mother had instilled just one thing in Phil it was to never punish angry. 

Punishment isn’t about a dominant's feelings, no matter what those feelings may be. It’s about correcting their submissive, making sure they don’t hurt themselves or others, to help them learn, and to guide them into being the best person they can be; it’s to give them release and forgiveness.

Right now he wants to whip Clint until he’s begging for mercy. 

Mercy Phil isn’t sure he’s capable of. 

Damn Clint for putting him in this position. 

As he’s fuming he hears the coffeemaker turn on. 

He— What? Clint set the coffeemaker and _then_ ran? That doesn’t make any—

He walks over to the machine and sees the plate of fruit and the scone and freezes.

—sense?

He feels his blood pressure drop so suddenly he goes light headed and has to grab the counter. 

Clint wouldn’t make him breakfast and just leave.

Something’s going on. 

Phil reaches out and picks up the note, not surprised to see it shaking.

_Good morning, Boss-man,_

_Going for a run  
_ _Back by 8_

 _Do_ **_not_** _eat all the scones!!!_

_— And thanks for the thing yesterday. You were right, I needed it._

_-_ **_§C§_ **

Phil feels the paper crinkle under his fingers and stops abruptly, trying to smooth it out on the counter. 

How could he have been so _wrong_?

He looks down at the note again, at the little embellishments around Clint’s initial.

Clint had taken his time. 

Probably waiting to see if Phil would wake up. 

And Phil had thought he _left._

That Clint had broken his promise.

He had lost faith.

Phil leans back against the fridge and slides down, magnets clattering to the floor, until he’s sitting and he carefully folds the note back into a tent and balances it on his knee where he can see all the work Clint had put into Phil’s name.

Phil doesn’t deserve him. 

Clint is trying so hard and the second Phil had an excuse he assumed the worst of him.

Just like he had read Hand’s report and assumed Clint had been negligently reckless with his life. 

Clint has set up these arbitrary rules around sex and submission, withholding his Kiss and his body, but can Phil really blame him? This is all new to him; Clint’s never had a whiphand before, never had a dominant he could trust. 

One that trusts him. 

And Phil _hadn’t_ trusted him. 

Clint is right to make Phil wait. 

For Phil to be worthy of his Gift. 

In all the important ways, when it comes to submission, true submission, Clint is an innocent and Phil has been pushing him like a quarterback on prom night, trying to get Clint to submit by telling him he’ll enjoy it if he just lets himself, that he needs to submit for his own good, to ignore his own instincts and listen to Phil.

Phil’s been selfish and authoritarian; two things his mom had warned him about and that he had always thought he was immune to.

He has been trying to show Clint the joy and contentment a submissive feels when giving their complete submission and Phil’s no longer sure he should be Clint’s first. 

Phil wallows in his guilt for another ten minutes, tracing his name on the note before he gets a hold of himself. 

It’s time to stop trying to be the dominant Phil thinks Clint needs and to be the dominant Phil wishes he was.

He isn’t worthy now but by the time Clint is ready, Phil vows he will be. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phil’s Big Band Playlist for Clint
> 
> https://tinyurl.com/y3cjzqj7
> 
> Benny Goodman- Sing Sing Sing  
> Glenn Miller - In The Mood  
> Glenn Miller - Chattanooga Choo Choo  
> Woody Herman - The Good Earth  
> Count Basie - One O'Clock Jump  
> Charlie Barnet - Skyliner  
> Benny Goodman & Peggy Lee - Why Don't You Do Right? (Get Me Some Money Too)  
> Spike Jones and His City Slickers - Cocktails for Two  
> Ella Fitzgerald- That Old Black Magic  
> Lionel Hampton - Flying Home  
> Tommy Dorsey & Helen Forrest - Let's Have a Party  
> Harry James - Strictly Instrumental  
> Artie Shaw - Deep Night  
> Buddy Rich - Rich Ual Fire Dance  
> Glenn Miller - Moonlight Serenade  
> Benny Goodman - Don't Be That Way  
> Count Basie - Jumpin' At The Woodside  
> Duke Ellington and His Orchestra - Mood Indigo  
> Benny Goodman and his orch. - Sugar Foot Stomp Tommy Dorsey / Frances Langford - As Time Goes By  
> Harry James / Helen Forrest - You Made Me Love You
> 
> Phil, ummm, you know these are mostly love songs, right?


	12. Chapter 12

“Phil? I’m back. Please tell me you left me— oh thank God,” Clint deeply regrets not waiting for the coffee before leaving. 

His headache is fighting his running endorphins and caffeine withdrawal is winning. 

That chunk of cinderblock to the head certainly hadn’t done him any favors, either. 

Removing the arm band and setting his phone on the counter, he grabs the pot, almost starts drinking from it, and then remembers his corner time and having to face uncomfortable truths about himself. Last thing he needs is to find out his love of coffee is some sort of rebellion against his dead asshole of a father. 

He pours himself a cup in one of Phil’s travel mugs, it’s the biggest thing Phil has, and calls out, “I'm finishing the coffee! Don’t worry, I'm making more. Hi!” He says as Phil comes out of the bedroom, “You’re awfully quiet. You got my note rig— Oh, you did.”’

Phil had tried to get ready like it was a normal Saturday, eating his breakfast, slipping on button fly jeans and a black t-shirt after his shower. 

At loose ends he unpacked Clint’s bag, putting his things in the drawers Phil had emptied while Clint was in Mexico in the hope that it would still be necessary when Clint got back. 

It had only been about a week’s worth of clothes, a shaving kit that Phil set on the bathroom counter, and a small arsenal that took up more than half the bag, most of that from the case with Clint’s collapsible bow and travel quiver. Phil laid the weapons out on top of the dresser in Phil’s— their— walk-in closet for Clint to decide where he wants to put them. 

He needs to talk to Clint about moving the rest of his personal effects from the barracks this weekend. It won’t do for him to always have one foot out the door like this. 

Phil’s put his note up on the fridge with the ‘World’s Biggest Ball of Twine’ magnet from his nieces and Clint feels his cheeks warm; he can’t tell if Phil is upset or not— should Clint have woken him? Is the note up because he appreciated it or as a warning to not do it again? Phil looks like he worried. Maybe Clint should have left the note on Phil’s nightstand where he would see it first?

Suddenly he’s wrapped in Phil’s arms, “I’m sorry. I thought you left; I’m sorry.”

“Hey! Hey now, it’s okay,” Clint says, patting Phil’s back awkwardly, “It’s not like it wasn’t a reasonable assumption to make. Do you want me to just wake you up next time?”

It feels strange (good), Phil warm and pressed up to Clint, his own body temp up from the run and his skin cooling as his sweat evaporates. He realizes exactly how much his thin running shorts leave to the imagination and what the two of them must look like: Phil in jeans and a t-shirt, Clint basically naked except for his shorts and collar and he steps back, breaking the hug and taking a big drink of coffee.

“I— no. But, Clint, you do need to ask permission before leaving the house.”

He barely keeps from spitting out his coffee, “I what now?” 

Clint isn’t sure what he just heard. 

Oh, he heard it all right, he just can’t believe it.

“You can’t be serious?”

“Yes, I am. If nothing else it will prevent misunderstandings like this. You don’t want me to worry do you?”

Oh, that’s a low blow. 

Clint grits his teeth, “Alright. Whenever possible I will,” he feels his lips press together as if his mouth is trying to fight the carefully placed words, “Ask for permission before leaving the apartment.”

“Thank you. Now, I’d like to see a proper Greeting before you shower, if you’re up for it,” the sooner he can help Clint start to develop good habits the better. 

Clint has to swallow down his frustration. It’s like he can’t even get a break for one damned second. 

He debates refusing. He’s hot and sweaty, he needs to make up the calorie deficit he’s put himself into, and his only saving grace is that the coffee has started to kick in.

“So, do I— here? Or do we go back by the door?”

Clint’s confusion is adorable. 

“When you come home, the first thing you should do is remove your shoes and socks; go head and take them off now.”

He slips off his runners and socks and sets them to the side, the linoleum smooth and cool beneath his feet. 

“Traditionally, if I wasn’t home you would Kneel by the door and wait for me to return but I’m not that strict.”

Fucking hell. What the fuck has he gotten himself into?

Phil imagines for a moment what it would be like for Clint to wait for him voluntarily from the moment he gets home until Phil does as a show of submission and Phil feels his heart rate pick up at the thought. 

“Okay, so since we’re definitely not doing that,” Clint says with a touch of warning, “I’m pretty much free to do what I want until you get home?”

“For the most part. We agreed you won’t sit on the furniture—”

“Except at the kitchen table,” Clint reiterates.

Phil sighs, “Yes, except that. I ordered a submissive’s cot while you were gone; right now it’s folded up under the bed but you can use that if you need to get some rest and I’m not home; or you can make up a place by the bed or couch and nap on the floor.”

He wasn’t sure if it would matter when he bought it, if the first thing Clint was going to do when he got back from the mission was quit, but Phil figured it wouldn’t hurt for him to have one at any rate and now he’s glad he did. 

“Thanks,” Clint sounds anything but grateful and Phil would let it slide but that won’t do anyone any good.

“Clint,” Phil warns, “What did we say about respect?”

“I don’t remember there being a lot of ‘we’ in there, Phil.”

“This is thin ice, boy,” Phil’s dominant voice makes Clint shiver and he tries to pass it off to himself as his body temperature returning to baseline in the cool of the apartment, “Do you really want to start the morning with a punishment? You agreed you would try.”

It’s the last bit that does it. Phil’s right, he did promise to try. He takes a deep centering breath and, respectfully as he can manage, says, “I apologize, Sir.”

It’s more neutral than respectful but it appears to be good enough for Phil as he dips his head in acknowledgement, “Just remember to watch your tone, alright?”

Not sure he can if he says something right now, Clint nods.

“Please respond verbally to my questions unless you’re on strict voice restriction.”

“Voice restriction?” Clint asks with a furrowed brow.

“That’s a little more advanced; we’ll go over it later.”

Clint will have to look that up in _Submission_ the next chance he gets. He doesn’t want to get blindsided by it. 

“Clint?” Phil prompts.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Yes, Sir…?”

“Yes, Sir, I will watch my tone and not speak disrespectfully. I will answer questions verbally when… when not on voice restriction.”

“In that vein, I want you to start using my honorific each time you speak,” Phil knows Clint will only give it to him grudgingly at best, but he hopes every now and then he’ll slip into his submission like he had in Phil’s office and the way it makes him feel to hear Clint call him ‘Sir’ and mean it almost makes all this worth it on its own. 

Clint wants to argue, but he’s trying. He has to remember he’s trying, “Yes, Sir. Do… At work, too?”

Phil worries that he’s finding it all too easy to bend when it comes to Clint but he says, “Like I said last week, I’m willing to try to keep your submission and your work as separate as possible. As long as you remember to be respectful, for this week I won’t require you to use my honorific in the office except when we’re in private but I would like you to start working up to using it at all times. For now, any other rules will only apply any time you aren’t at work unless specifically stated otherwise.”

Phil pauses and Clint realizes he’s waiting for Clint to respond to that nonsense; he manages to keep his eye roll out of his voice and off his face but it’s close going, “Yes, Sir.”

Phil raises his eyebrow.

“Yes, Sir, I’m to be respectful and always use your honorific when at home or in private and I’m to work on calling you ‘Sir’ at all times.” 

Fuck, it’s probably going to kill him, but he’s going to try. 

“Good,” Phil says like he’s checking off a list. He probably is, now that Clint thinks of it, “You have permission to use the television while I’m gone; do you want to set up your own profiles, that might be better than switching between our accounts?”

“Profiles are fine,” Clint shrugs leaning one hip against the counter as he finishes his coffee. He’s never really cared for tv, even with his aids he feels like he misses too much without the subtitles and half the time they don’t match up to the actual dialogue and it drives him nuts. 

No, give him a nice book any day of the week. They’re easier to start and stop and there’s no risk of accidentally turning the sound on and giving away your position.

Phil is giving him a look and he remembers to add, “Sir. Profiles are fine, Sir. Is there room on the roof for me to set up a target? I’m going to miss being able to wake up in the middle of the night and get off a couple of volleys.”

Not exactly proper use of his honorific but it will do for now, “I’ll check with the super and if she allows it we can set something up for you. I don’t know how secure we can make it.”

“I’m not worried, it will be light enough that I can keep it in here when it’s not in use. Don’t worry, it won’t take up much space.”

Then he remembers and he feels himself flush as he calls Phil, “Sir,” again. 

Phil nods, “Okay, that seems fair. If we can’t use the roof then you have my permission to go use the range at HQ whenever you need to.”

That rankles, he hadn’t figured on needing permission for that in the first place. 

“What, so I need permission for everything? Sir,” this is getting ridiculous; he feels like ‘Sir’ is becoming some nonsense word _Sir, Sir, Sir,_ repetition turning it into meaningless sound. That can’t be what Phil’s goal is but Clint’s feeling too worn down to worry about the why’s of high protocol at this point. It doesn’t help that each time he calls Phil ‘Sir’ he feels the need to submit that lives in the back of his throat get stronger.

He doesn’t want to think about submitting, right now all he wants to shower and eat, like, a carton of eggs. 

Oh, and if there’s any of that pumpkin curry left some of that.

“I won’t withhold it unduly and I won’t require a formal request the day before any outing—”

“Excuse me?”

“Clint.”

“ _Sir_ ,” it’s infinitely easier to say when he doesn’t mean it. 

“ _Clint.”_

Clint closes his eyes and prays for patience, then stripped of emotion, says, “Sir.”

“Better. I told you I would be lenient where I could,” Phil says, “Though if you abuse the privilege you will be punished.”

“Mmhm,” Clint doesn’t say what he’s thinking, discretion the better part of valor.

Phil sighs and Clint realizes he expects a response. 

Neutrally as possible again, he says, “Yes, Sir.”

“We’ve gotten off track. Once you’re barefoot you’ll grab a polishing cloth and come Kneel for me wherever I am. I’m not wearing any shoes, so you can skip that right now as you would just be setting it to the side. Go ahead and Kneel now.”

“Yes, Sir,” he shivers again, sinking down and feeling the linoleum against his skin and crossing his wrists behind his back.

“And Obeisance,” Clint responds before Phil can explain further.

“Yes, Sir,” Clint’s breath had become shallow at some point and he consciously starts taking even breaths as he bows down and presses the unbruised right side of his face to the top of Phil’s foot.

He doesn’t like that this feels good.

“Good boy,” Phil murmurs and Clint can’t quite stop a loan moan from escaping, “You should stay there until I acknowledge you like this,” he bends down and presses two fingers to the back of Clint’s collar.

“Oh,” Clint says softly as the light pressure goes straight to his soul.

“Now you can sit up again.”

“YessSir,” Clint says, feeling a little dazed.

God, Clint is perfect like this. 

Or nearly so. 

Phil brushes his thumb across Clint’s lower lip and lets out a pleased sound when Clint licks his lip and his tongue brushes the pad of Phil’s thumb.

Phil waits a charged moment and his voice as a bit of a burr as he says, “You should also keep your lips parted in the presence of your whiphand.”

It’s like a splash of cold water and Clint jerks back, “No fucking way.”

He’s proud of himself for not shouting it. 

Shouting, hell, he wants to be on his feet and in Phil’s face instead he’s still here on his knees.

“Clint!” Phil reprimands and Clint says firmly but respectfully, even if he doesn’t feel it, “No, Sir. I’m not doing that.”

Phil frowns and then his brow clears, “At home, Clint. At home; I won’t require it at work unless it’s just the two of us.”

“And I said ‘no’. Sir.”

“You can’t keep giving me ultimatums, Clint, not if this is to work. I can’t be afraid that you're going to walk out the door every time I give you an order you don’t want to hear.”

If one of them is going to end this farce of a relationship it isn’t going to be Clint, “I’m not going anywhere, Phil; I’m just not keeping my mouth open for you like a who—”

“Clint!” Phil cuts him off, “It’s a sign of subservience, of respect. And while I’m proud of you for not running, I’ve already told you I won’t be disrespected.”

“If you want me to respect you, you won’t make me do this.”

“Are you using your safeword?”

Clint debates it for a moment but using it feels like admitting defeat and that’s even worse than the thought of submitting.

Besides, as much as he wants Phil to smack him around, if Phil’s going to beat him for disobeying he isn’t going to embarrass himself by safewording first.

He straightens his shoulders, twisting his wrists together at the small of his back until they lay more comfortably, and looks Phil in the eye, “No, Sir.”

Phil lets out a frustrated breath. 

And this had been going so well.

“Are you pushing to get punished again?”

Clint gives him an offended look, “No, Sir.”

Phil believes him; which is why he doesn’t understand why Clint is still refusing to obey. He isn’t running and he isn’t safewording. If he thinks Phil is going to give in to this display of defiance he has another thing coming. 

The only thing left is to punish him.

“Go get the bamboo paddle from the dungeon. Third one on the right. Then come Kneel by the couch.”

“Yes, Sir,” Clint says with a sneer.

“That’s one more. I suggest you drop the attitude.”

Clint stands, hands loose at his sides and starts to turn, then thinks better of it and takes three very deliberately paced steps backwards around the kitchen island, more so he won’t have to risk touching Phil as he walks by than out of any deference. 

Phil’s dungeon is done in tasteful black and white leather, with floor to ceiling French doors the length of the far wall which lead out to the same balcony as the bedroom, a lounge set visible just to the other side of the glass. The walls are black and cream stripes that make the room feel like a giant cage. 

There’s an articulated examination table with stirrups and a multitude of leather straps in the far right corner that makes Clint’s heart flutter in his throat and a simple spanking bench angled into the left corner with a standing mirror at the head.

There’s a padded sawhorse against the wall to the left of the bench and in the middle of the wall to the right is a glass fronted cabinet. In the near right corner there’s a sink with a couple towels hung on an electric warming rack attached to the wall. There’s a hose curled up on the shelf beneath the sink.

The floor is smoothly polished concrete and there’s a drain in the center of the room. There are hardpoints with hooks, eyebolts, and recessed rings on the ceiling, walls, and floor and as he turns he sees that the wall across from the windows is completely mirrored and there’s a St. Andrew’s Cross in the near left corner. 

Clint isn’t sure how long he stands there. Long enough for Phil to call out, “And another one for stalling.”

“Yes, Sir. I’m sorry, Sir,” Clint replies then shakes his head at his reverent tone.

This room is going to ruin him. 

The concrete is even colder than the kitchen linoleum on his bare feet and he avoids the sight of his reflection with his now seemingly too small sunshine yellow shorts, the black band of his collar at his throat, little white bandages above his left eye, and nothing else.

How can he feel covered when he’s on the street but naked when it’s just him and Phil is beyond him.

Phil’s toy cabinet is as organized as Clint expects it to be and he spends so long salivating at the neatly arranged ropes and chains, the selection of paddles, floggers, whips, and canes and everything in between that Phil calls out, “That’s another. Make it four and it will be a belt and not the paddle.”

“Sorry! I’m sorry, Phil. It’s just this _room.”_

Phil had been waiting long enough that he had thought Clint was delaying on purpose; now that he knows the truth, he’s tempted to be more forgiving but Clint is living proof that if you give a submissive an inch they’ll take a mile. 

Wanting to see the look on Clint’s face that goes with his voice Phil comes over to lean in the doorway. 

He had thought that Clint would be more comfortable, take his punishment easier, in the front room but seeing the relaxed set of his shoulders and the shining _want_ in his eyes, his lips naturally parted, Phil kind of wants to make him _live_ in this room. 

Phil nods, coming to a couple decisions, “I was going to make sleeping in here a punishment but I see now that wouldn’t work, so I’ll use it as a reward. If you commit to an hour of cuddling before we go to sleep, not just putting up with me cuddling you, you have to cuddle back, I’ll let you set up the cot in here to sleep for the next two weeks as you adjust to a new place.”

“Oh, _Phil,_ thank you,” it’s such a relief to not have to worry about accidentally stabbing Phil in the middle of the night that he has to brace himself against going to his knees. 

“I’ll also give you a choice, do you want your punishment here or on the couch?”

“Here. Please.”

“Okay, now stop stalling, I meant it about the belt. And remember your honorifics.”

Clint swallows, “Yes, Sir,” and grabs the paddle. He recognizes it as the same one as from London and he feels his already hard cock get harder. 

This is going to suck so bad. 

He can take any amount of pain Phil can throw at him; more when he thinks about how low Phil’s capacity for violence is. 

No, it’s Phil knowing that Clint’s turned on by all of this that’s going to kill him. He has no illusions about sparing his dignity but better to lose it for the space of a spanking than to continuously give up a small part of himself every day for as long as it takes for Phil to find him a real whiphand. 

When Clint turns he sees that Phil’s rotated the spanking bench so that he’s facing Clint and moved the standing mirror so that Clint will not only have to see his own face if he looks up, but he’ll have a perfect view of Phil paddling his ass in the opposite mirror.

Clint swallows and closes his eyes. 

Fuck. 

“Last chance to only have the one for sass and two for stalling, open your mouth now and I’ll let the ten for your initial disobedience slide,” Clint is making him soft but that look on his face was almost Phil’s undoing. 

Phil can’t imagine what he’d be willing to give up if Clint begs.

Clint opens his eyes as he snorts before he can catch himself and Phil raises an eyebrow, “Ten for disobeying, five more for disrespect, plus the three. You really could make this easier on yourself if you just accept your place; is keeping your mouth open really that much of a burden?”

With the reiteration of the real reason they’re here Clint feels his resolve strengthen. He looks at Phil and enunciates clearly, “Bite me.”

“Clint! That’s a full twenty and you can put that paddle back and grab the red belt.”

“Why not thirty? Why not fifty? I’m telling you, it’s not happening and you can’t fucking make me,” for a second he almost tosses the paddle loose in the cabinet but more than disrespecting Phil that would be disrespecting his art and mad as Clint is he isn’t there yet.

Phil looks at Clint in shock; he’s _never_ had a submissive this antagonistic. If they hadn’t set crawling as one of Clint’s hard limits he would have Clint on all fours and bringing him the belt in his mouth.

“I will not be goaded, Clint, and you know that.”

Clint crosses his arms, belt folded in one hand, fuming, “I’m not _goading_ ; I’m telling you it doesn’t matter how many times you hit me, this isn’t going to happen.”

“That’s another 5 and 5 minutes in the corner. Go ahead. Push me for more.”

Clint pinches his mouth shut and looks away, not that it helps; he sees himself in the wall mirror, color high and body tense with anger; his shorts leave nothing to the imagination, his cock a hard line with a damp spot at the tip.

He wants to scream. 

Throw something. 

Maybe a punch. 

But while he’s refusing to keep his mouth open, he’s still trying to keep his promise; as long as Phil lets him sit at the table, doesn’t make him crawl, and doesn’t make Clint sleep naked or require him to service Phil sexually, he will try to follow high protocol as much as he can. 

That doesn’t mean he has to be a robot. Clint already knows there are going to be some things he just won’t be able to make himself do and he’s willing to accept if he doesn’t follow Phil’s arbitrary rules there will be consequences. 

As opposed to Clint’s highly charged state Phil looks perfectly calm sitting on the spanking bench, as if he’s willing to wait forever. 

Clint reluctantly walks over to Phil and gets to his knees with a scowl; Phil’s once again floored at how quickly Clint’s picked up the positions. His knees are at the perfect angle, his back curved and his head lowered. He brings up the belt and kisses the red leather, if not reverently at least not with the sneer Phil had been expecting, then Offers it up on his palms, just over his head, the muscles of his back rippling and for a second Phil forgets this is a punishment, he wants to lick every inch of Clint’s back. 

“Good boy.”

Clint shivers; he isn’t, he knows better. He’s about to be punished _because_ he isn’t a good boy but if it makes Phil feel better to say it, Clint is going to be selfish and not point out how wrong he is.

“Shorts off then up and over.”

Clint brings the sides of his hands together and holds the position, “Phil,” he begs, but there’s no quarter to find here, just Phil’s unendingly patient silence, “Please? Sir? Let me keep them?” 

It’s not being naked in front of Phil, they’ve been in the locker room at the same time often enough and Clint isn’t shy about his body, it’s the context of baring himself fully to his whiphand, and something in him just… can’t.

Phil has to steel himself against Clint’s begging, begging him and calling him ‘Sir’ like he means it and Phil would do just about anything to hear it again, “I’m not telling you a second time; if we have to stay here all day until you're ready, so be it.”

Clint closes his eyes and keeps his position until he’s trembling with the effort it takes to keep his arms up but still Phil waits.

It’s taking all Phil’s control to remain impassive as Clint breaks his heart, fighting his submission tooth and nail, his very strength his weakness. At this point Phil would be just as happy, maybe happier, if Clint would only safeword; Phil could bundle him up, hold him, comfort him. 

But the only way forward is for Clint to give in to either Phil’s demand or his own limits.

Phil realizes Clint’s will is as strong, if not stronger than his own. He’ll hold the position until he drops, Phil sees it now, how both of their stubborn ways have led them here and he has to make a decision. 

Let Clint fall or save him. 

And put like that it’s no choice at all. 

He has one last thing he can try, though he doubts it will work. If it doesn’t then Clint’s pride will defeat the both of them, Phil will break first and if that happens there’s no way Phil can continue to be Clint’s whiphand.

Phil sets aside the belt and takes Clint’s hands, their shaking increases; he squeezes them gently, “Please, Clint. For me. Please.”


	13. Chapter 13

_‘Please.’_

Phil said, _‘Please.’_

Not just once, twice; and Clint can tell that he’s no longer asking for Clint’s sake but his own and that’s what gives Clint the strength to finally move. 

He may not be able to do this because Phil thinks he needs to, but he can do it because _Phil_ needs him to. 

He slips off his shorts as he stands, blushing at the way his cock curves up to his belly button. He sets his shorts aside and awkwardly lies across Phil’s lap, trying and failing to keep his cock away from Phil’s leg, resting his palms on the cool concrete.

Maybe it would have been better to do this in the living room, at least with carpet there would be something to grab onto. 

And, fuck, no mirrors. 

He regrets his tan lines now, the white of his ass looks like a blank canvas, and part of him wants to see what Phil can do with it even as he hates that this is a punishment and not—

But then what has he done that would earn him a reward?

Phil fights to control his sigh of relief, “Good, Clint, thank you. You’ll count each one and thank me for it, and you _will_ call me, ‘Sir’. They only count if you do, and if you lose count or miss one, we start over. Do you understand these instructions, boy?”

Clint’s cock jumps and he knows Phil can feel it against his leg. He closes his eyes, blocking out the sight of the smooth concrete and says, “Yes, Sir. I’m to count each one and thank you for it and I’m to use your proper honorific. They only count when I count them out and if I lose count or fail to count one, we start over.”

He would have preferred Clint to use, ‘Sir,’ after each sentence but baby steps. 

“Good boy,” Phil definitely notices Clint’s reaction to that, if Phil’s pleased huff of air is any indication, “This is a punishment, so no warm up, we’re going right into them. Now count.”

 _‘Ouch,’_ okay, that stings a little, Phil’s able to get more out of the belt than Clint had thought he would at this angle but that doesn’t really matter; Clint’s been taking beltings since before he was four years old, Phil doesn’t have it in him to breech Clint’s pain tolerance. 

Which is a shame because a good belt whipping in the right context is amazing. 

One where Clint’s been wrestled into submission and chained to a cross or over a bench, where he’s been pushed to the point where pain is just a red haze and he doesn’t know if he’s going to pass out or cum; but that tends to take a while, until the belt starts breaking his skin, until the bruising is thorough enough that he’ll feel it for weeks afterwards.

“Clint,” Phil says when Clint remains silent. Why does he have to fight like this? It’s exhausting. Maybe Hand was right; maybe this is too much to try and take on. 

Phil sighs and Clint isn’t sure if Phil’s getting ready to beat him for real or if he’s going to push Clint off his lap in disgust and tell him this just isn’t going to work but Phil surprises him, twisting his fingers in Clint’s hair in one swift motion that has him gasping as Phil pull back his head with a little shake.

He wonders what he has to do to get Phil to do that again. 

Submit, probably. 

And that’s not fucking happening. 

Clint doesn’t submit, he gets _made_ to submit. 

Clint focuses on Phil’s face as he glares into the mirror.

“I said count. I’ve made enough allowances for you today.”

Clint pinches his lips tighter and dares Phil with his eyes. 

“Clint, if you don’t count I’m getting the ring gag and you’ll wear it the rest of the day.”

“Phil,” Clint says in a tone that says, _‘No,’_ his eyes wide in the mirror.

“Then count. And for that little display just now, I want you to keep your eyes on your face. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sir,” Clint holds back his own sigh as Phil shakes Clint’s head again, knowing what Phil wants but unable to fight his need to fight. “I’m to watch my face and if I intentionally don’t count you…”

“Keep going.”

Clint swallows. 

“You’ll make me wear a ring gag,” he shivers realizing Phil could have opened with the gag, but he wants Clint to keep his mouth open on his own; he wants Clint to be complicit every step of the way, not forced into submission but offering it up freely like some sort of gift. 

Huh. The media makes a big deal about submission being a gift but Clint’s never really seen it that way, not until now.

Not until Phil.

“Sir.”

“Sorry, Sir; you’ll make me wear the ring gag, Sir.”

“Now, lets try that again,” Phil says, letting go of Clint’s hair then belting him again. 

“One, Sir. Thank you, Sir,” Okay, Clint’s a little impressed despite himself that Phil landed it in the exact spot and with the same force as the first one. He hopes the entire spanking won’t be this way; twenty five to the exact same place with that much force is enough to get even Clint’s attention.

“Two, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

Oh, thank God, he’s switching it up.

“Three, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

Honestly, he’s not sure what’s wrong with him.

“Four, Sir. Thank you, Sir.

He had totally freaked out about stripping for Phil.

“Five, Sir. Thank you, Sir.

He shivers, remembering what it felt like to be kneeling there, hands held out above his head, begging the only way he could.

Finally. Clint’s ‘Sir’s’ still sound by rote and not out of submission but at least he’s giving Phil _something._

“I’ve got you,” Phil says, and Clint realizes he thinks Clint’s shiver was from the spanking, which has been mildly stingy but nothing to write home about. He doubts Phil’s leaving any marks worth taking note of. 

Clint’s quieter than Phil’s ever seen a submissive when getting punished. Phil wonders if he needs to be harder on Clint to get him to focus on his body, on what he’s feeling. 

He ticks the punishment up a notch to see how Clint reacts. 

“Six, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

Oh no.

No-no-no.

That one had felt good. 

Too good.

And Phil has to have noticed. 

_There._ There’s the honorific Phil’s been looking for, that touch of reverence that makes his blood sing and that it’s Clint— God, that it’s Clint makes it all the sweeter.

“Seven, Sir. Thank you, Sir,” the mix of pain and the submission he feels when he calls Phil ‘Sir’ is a cocktail that will be his undoing. 

Clint’s cock had pulsed against Phil’s leg hard enough for Phil to feel it through his jeans. Is he being too soft? This is supposed to be a punishment but maybe Clint a true masochist? It seems counter to everything he knows about Clint but he’s starting to realize just how little that is. 

Phil starts slowly ramping up the strength of each strike.

“Eight, Sir. Thank you, Sir,” God, looks like he’s going to have some bruises after all.

Clint’s eyes get darker as he watches, irises swallowing up the indigo of his eyes. The next one is so good he moans a little. 

“Oh, Nine, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

 _Yes!_ Yes, that’s what Phil needs to hear.

Clint catches himself licking his lips

Fuck. He’s screwed. 

On the tenth one Clint arches his ass up and into it, “Ohhh, ten, Sir,” meaning it when he says, “ _Thank you_ , Sir.”

“Settle,” Phil says with a hand on the small of Clint’s back, grounding him. They have a long way to go. When Clint relaxes his hips again Phil gives him the next one, not quite as hard as he can, but close.

“Oof! Like that, Sir, like that!” That one stung quite a bit and Clint briefly presses his eyes closed before looking back at his reflection. Phil taps the sore spot from the last one, especially tender where it crosses over earlier strikes “Uh… um— eleven!” Clint blurts, remembering it at last, “Sir. Thank you, Sir.

Fuck that’s good.

It’s not the reaction Phil’s been going for, but it is a reaction, and one he can use. Curious and cruel, he gives Clint everything he’s got.

“Ohhhhh,” Clint moans, rolling his hips, chasing the sensation wanting to turn away from the needy look on his face but wanting to behave more, “Twelve, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

Phil rubs Clint ass with the belt, showing him where the next one is going to go and Clint can’t help himself from pushing up against it and whispering, “Please?”

Phil follows through with his intent, no longer thinking about punishment, only about the beautiful sounds Clint makes when he’s hurting.

“Thirteen, Sir. _Thank you_ , Sir,” God, he loves this, being able to ride the edge of pain.

“Fuuuu-fourteen, Sir, Thank you— fuck, thank you, Si— yes! Fifteen, Sir, _please_? Ah! Sixteen, Sir! Thank you, Sir!” Clint’s eyes are bright with pleasure and stark with need as he trusts against Phil’s leg, fuck this better than any fantasy, “Please, Sir, please, more?”

Phil’s mouth waters and he brings down the belt again, knowing he should stop, that this isn’t what he had planned, that Clint’s thrown him off again, but that beautiful noise is more than he can resist.

“Mmmhhn. Seventeen, Sir. Thank you, Sir,” Clint’s tone has taken on an edge of reverence, gone deeper with lust. Phil isn’t sure when he became hard beneath Clint’s taut stomach, when the combination of Clint’s movements and his sounds pushed Phil past his control and he’s not sure he cares as he brings the belt down again with full force, “Uhn-uhn-uhn, _so good_ ,” Clint whimpers before saying louder, “Eighteen, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

Phil is slowly driving Clint out of his mind. These measured strikes the most delicious foreplay of his life. He feels something incandescent inside him trying to get out, “Nineteen, Sir! Oh, thank you, thank you, Sir.”

Phil wonders what it will be like to have Clint writhing like this in his bed, begging for Phil pain, and this is the most vicious blow yet, not ehiugh to break skin but close, so close, “Oh God! Twenty, Phil, please! I mean Sir! I’m sorry, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

Phil sets the belt to the side and rub’s Clint’s ass, delighting in how hot it is to the touch, his cheeks now a deep red, even darker where the welts overlap, previews of where Clint will be wearing Phil’s bruises. 

Clint whimpers, “More?”

“Only five more, sweetheart.”

“Oh, please, Phil, please don’t stop.”

“Did you forget this is a punishment, Clint?”

Clint hangs his head because, yeah, he kind of did. Phil brings his chin up with two fingers and Clint meets his eyes, “Keep watching sweet boy.”

“I’m sorry, Sir. Please don’t stop?” Clint begs.

“Will you keep your mouth open for me?”

Clint starts to nod his head, ‘yes’ before he remembers himself and shakes his head ‘no’. Agreeing now when he doesn’t really mean it will only cause more problems, “I’m sorry, Sir. I can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

Clint stays silent long enough that Phil grabs his hair again and pulls his head back sharply enough to jingle Clint’s tag, saying in that deliciously dark voice, “Answer me, boy.”

Clint moans and licks his lips, “Both, Sir.”

Phil sighs, “Five left then,” he knows he should stop, that five more is giving Clint exactly what he wants, but Phil can’t help himself, he wants more of those sweet sounds Clint was making and he doesn’t know when he’ll have another excuse. It’s selfish and wrong and neither of those are enough to stop Phil, “Once we’re finished, you may put your shorts back on before going to Kneel in the corner on the cushion in the living room. Understand?”

“Yes, Sir. Five more, Sir. Then I get dressed and go to the corner, Sir.”

Phil groans as Clint gets the mode of address right. He’ll be so beautiful once Phil finally gets him trained. 

He’s beautiful now.

Phil feels a surge of jealousy for whoever Clint finally chooses as his whiphand. 

“I want you to keep still. If you move then these are the last five you will ever get from this belt again.”

“Ohhh, please, no, Sir, I can’t—”

“You can and you will, or you will face the consequences.”

“Yes, Sir,” Clint says miserably.

“Yes, Sir, what?”

“Yes, Sir, I’ll stay still for you, Sir.”

Phil makes a show of picking up the belt, looking it over as if he hadn’t just done so before starting the spanking, trying to get some measure of control back, nearly losing all the ground he’s made when Clint whimpers, looking up at Phil in the mirror. Phil raises an eyebrow and Clint goes back to watching his face. 

Phil carefully folds the belt, hoping Clint will behave, wanting to use the belt again later for pleasure, to put Clint at the cross or over the bench, somewhere he’ll have some real leverage, where he can really make Clint hurt and pull those gorgeous sounds out of him over and over. 

Clint slaps one of his hands against the concrete as he fights not to move, “Twenty one, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

“Agree to keep your mouth open and I’ll strap you to the cross and show you some real pain,” he says as he brings the belt down again.

“Uhhhhhh, fuck. No fair. Twenty two, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

“Imagine it, Clint, your arms stretched wide, leather cuffs secured tightly so there’s nowhere to go—”

“Ahh, twenty three, Sir. Thank you, Sir,” Clint bites his lip, only two more and then it’s over. 

“— So that you have to stand there and take it,” he brings the belt down again with a crack that echoes off the walls. 

“Ah! Twenty four!! Fuck, Phil, _please_ , please don’t stop!”

“I know I said that if you miscounted we would start over, but I think we can both agree that that would be the opposite of a punishment. Promise to keep your mouth open and I’ll give you as many as you want, until you’re crying from them; I want to hear you beg. Don’t you want to beg for me, Clint?”

“ _Phil.”_

“I think you mean, ‘Sir,’ and you don’t get the last one until you count number twenty four correc—”

“Twenty four, Sir. Thank you, Sir. Please? Please, you promised?” Clint barely keeps from moving, shouting at the effort to keep still, “Oh, please, Phil, please, don’t stop!”

“You know what you need to do for more; you want to be good for me, don’t you, boy?”

Oh, _fuck;_ had he thought the spanking hurt? It’s nothing compared to this and it’s what almost breaks him but he thinks about coming home from a mission, getting to Phil’s apartment, kneeling for him barefoot, pressing his cheek to Phil’s foot. All doable, but doing so while knowing all the while that Phil can give him _this_ , will be hard enough day after day. Keeping his mouth open for Phil is a step of vulnerability too fucking far, something he’s never done for _anyone._

Clint doesn’t _do_ vulnerable. He’s animalistic, dangerous, predatory. He needs to be conquered, not seduced. 

Submitting to Phil like that, a constant reminder that he’s Phil’s, drawing him deeper and deeper into Phil’s orbit? He can’t do that knowing it’s only temporary, that he’ll have bared himself down to his core and that someday it will all just be _gone._

Clint looks up at Phil and licks his lips, swallows, and presses them together resolutely before looking back at his own face. 

He looks desperate, probably because he is, but no amount of pleasure is worth his soul.

Phil sighs, then gives Clint the last one; praying that time in the corner will work where spanking has not. 

He’s not sure what to do with a sub for whom spanking is only a reward. 

Corner time had worked so well in Phil’s office, maybe that’s the way to handle Clint going forward; give him time to think things through, to see all the angles and come around on his own. 

It goes against every fiber of Phil’s being to let go of that control, to abandon his submissive to figure out things on his own, and he has to remind himself Clint is not only _not_ Phil’s submissive, he’s not like any submissive Phil has ever known.

“Ohhhhh, fuuuuuuck,” the last one is almost enough to push Clint over, the mixture of Phil’s disappointment and the painful pleasure and he wants to— he _wants_. His sense of self is hanging by a fucking thread and it would be so easy, so, _so_ easy to let it break and that’s exactly why he can’t let it happen. 

He takes a couple breaths and says, sadly, softly, wishing he were the kind of submissive that could bend without breaking, “Twenty five, Sir. Thank you, Sir,” then he closes his eyes and goes nearly boneless, almost panting in Phil’s lap for a couple seconds. 

That part’s over. 

Now for the really hard part. 

He slides off Phil’s lap and reaches for his shorts when Phil stops him, “Clint.”

Clint flinches away. 

Here’s where Phil finally admits that Clint is a bad sub. He barely stops himself from curling in his shoulders or touching the back of his BTE, the need to protect himself so great that he’s even trying to hide his coping mechanism. 

“Clint, look at me,” Clint’s gone shy on him again and Phil is learning to see that as a sign that he needs to pay close attention to his submissive. 

Clint takes a bracing breath, it’s not like delaying will make it any easier and at least Clint has the welts becoming bruises Phil just gave him that he can take guilty comfort in. 

He needs _more._

When he looks, Phil still has that patient expression, the one that says he’s waiting for Clint and that he’s willing to wait for as long as it fucking takes. Phil is holding the belt folded in half stretched tightly between his hands and Clint isn’t sure what he’s expected to do, looking from the belt to Phil’s eyes and back again, “Sir?”

“Kneel back down, sweetheart, kiss the belt, and put it away. Then you can get dressed and we can finish your punishment.”

“Yes, Sir,” Clint says, shifting to his knees, the concrete hard and unforgiving underneath him, his cock an aching need arcing up between his legs. He wants to touch himself, not just for himself, for Phil.

Fuck, a good spanking always messes with Clint’s head and that had been _good_.

 _‘Knock it off, horndog, that’s not why we’re here,’_ Clint thinks, not sure if he’s talking to himself or his cock. 

Both probably. 

His nudity is supposed to be a sign of his submission not an excuse to let his lust run wild.

Maybe things would be different if Phil could separate sex and submission but he can’t.

Clint crosses his wrists behind him and he’s so beautiful that Phil is speechless. He bows his head and starts by the folded end of the belt in Phil’s left hand, reverently pressing his lips to the warm red leather and Phil feels his lips part in a soft ‘O’ as Clint kisses his way across the taut belt. 

Fuck it, what does it matter what Phil thinks?

He’s made it clear that he wants Clint’s mouth on his dick and Clint wants that, too. 

Why should he keep denying them something they both fucking want?

Clint doesn’t stop when he reaches Phil’s hand, instead kissing his way from the base of Phil’s thumb to up to the tip.

“Clint?” Phil asks in confusion, “What are you doing.”

“I want,” he bites at Phil’s thumb, “To suck your cock,” he takes Phil’s thumb into his mouth causing Phil to drop that end of the belt with a jingle of the buckle. Clint sucks and swirls his tongue and Phil had managed to ignore his cock during Clint’s spanking but now his jeans are painfully tight.

 _“Clint,”_ Phil moans, pulling his thumb back and then thrusting it in between Clint’s lips, fucking Clint’s mouth but Clint doesn’t just passively take it, opening up for Phil; he’s aggressive, primal, scraping Phil’s thumb with his teeth and shooting sparkles of sensation up Phil’s arm.

“Wait, _wait,”_ Phil says, pulling back his thumb until it rests slick and shiny on Clint’s lower lip; Clint doesn’t follow it with his mouth but he does flick out his tongue across the pad of Phil’s thumb and keeps nipping at the tip as he looks at Phil with those deep sea blue eyes, “You aren’t trying to get out of the rest of your punishment are you?”

“No,” Clint breathes out, “No, I’ll go to the corner as soon as I finish swallowing your cum, I promise. Please, Phil, I need it.”

Phil groans and tosses the belt to the side, this time Clint does start to chase Phil’s thumb as he pulls away but is quelled by a look from Phil. Phil’s not sure what changed for his submissive and some part of him is trying to warn him that something’s wrong but he’s waited long enough. He should have insisted on this in his office as soon as the paperwork was done and now Clint will truly, fully be his.

Phil is slowly working open the buttons of his jeans, teasing out the moment, when Clint says, “That’s it, Phil, give it to me.”

That gets through to Phil where his conscience could not, the realization that Clint may _want_ him but he still doesn’t want to _submit_ to him.

“No.”

“What!? Why? You want this as much as I do.”

“Not like this Clint. Not like this. Get— get dressed and go wait by the corner. I’ll be there shortly to start your punishment.”

“I don’t understand,” Clint says, his face a portrait of confusion, “Seriously, Phil, what’s the big fucking deal? It’s just a blow job. You pull my hair, call me a whore, and maybe I jack off while you cum down my throat.”

“That isn’t what I want.”

“What do you want?”

“I want you to _submit.”_

“And I want to submit!”

“Go.”

Phil’s voice is so cold that Clint shivers, “Phil? Phil, what did I do wrong?”

Phil wonders when he lost control. 

Probably Managua.

“Clint, this wouldn’t be _just_ anything for me; you want to submit becasue you want sex. I want you to submit because you want to submit.”

“What the hell’s the difference? I’m on my knees, I’m begging, what more do you want?”

“Your submission means something to me and if it doesn’t mean something to you, then you aren’t ready.”

“I feel pretty ready,” Clint says stroking his cock with a smirk and rocking his hips back until his heels dig into his flaming ass. God, he could cum right now.

“No!” Phil snaps, grabbing Clint’s wrist, “You don’t touch your cock without my permission.”

“I _what_?!” That cuts through Clint’s lust like nothing else, “I’m sorry, what the _fuck_ did you just say?” He tries to tug his wrist back but Phil’s grip is like an iron band.

“You heard me. You don’t get to touch your cock without my permission.”

“I beg to suck your cock and you _punish_ me?”

“This isn’t a punishment. I should have set it as a rule to begin with; I forget sometimes how innocent you are.”

“I’m gonna have to go with, ‘what the fuck’ again. The last fucking thing I am is innocent, Phil.”

“You don’t know how innocent you are. You don’t know what you're asking for or why it matters. You're like a teenager with no boundaries, no control. So I will teach you control. Now. Go. To. Your. Corner.”

Clint’s lip curls up in the start of a snarl.

“Now. Or we’re done. I mean it, Clint. Go.”

The snarl becomes fully fledged, but Clint grabs his shorts and stalks out of the dungeon. 

Phil puts his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. 

Clint is right about one thing. 

What the fuck. 


	14. Chapter 14

When Phil’s collected himself he hangs up the belt and goes out to the living room.

Clint is leaning one shoulder against the wall by the corner with his ankles crossed and his arms loose; dressed again, if you can call it that, in his running shorts. Phil wants to bar Clint from wearing them outside the house; and maybe make them part of his uniform when he’s far enough along to have that discussion.

He looks naturally relaxed but his eyes smoulder and with those ridiculous shorts Clint’s nearly naked but there’s such raw, barely leashed power emanating from him that it’s no wonder everyone assumes he’s a dominant. 

He pushes himself off the wall, all coiled grace as he takes a step forward, “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

Phil tamps down on a frisson of fear at the dark things lurking under Clint’s deadly calm and raises an eyebrow.

“About not letting me jerk off.”

“Yes.”

Clint shakes his head, “Phil, you can’t—”

“Yes, I can.”

“Be reasonable,” though Clint sounds anything but reasonable when he says it. 

“I am.”

Clint’s nostrils flare and Phil sees him glance at the front door.

“Kneel facing the corner. I want you to think about where this rebellious streak is coming from and what you expect it to accomplish.”

Clint looks at the door again and Phil wonders if they’ve come to another impasse, and if so which of them will yield first.

Clint takes a centering breath and asks as evenly as he can, “May I shower and change first, Sir?”

Phil starts to say, ‘no’, but Clint is probably cold by now, having come in hot from his run and then spending time in the dungeon which runs cold; Phil nods, “Go, but be quick about it.”

Clint almost but not quite pushes past him; not brushing into him just getting close and while it’s difficult to forget that Clint is a large man, when he’s close enough that Phil can feel Clint’s body heat (and how is he still so warm? Is Phil being too soft? Too late to second guess now) he’s reminded of _how much_ bigger Clint really is, with a couple of inches and at least thirty pounds of muscle on Phil, who’s no lightweight. Clint is somehow more intimidating half naked than he is fully clothed, which shouldn’t make him irresistibly more attractive, but here they are.

Clint goes to grab his bag from the bedroom but it’s not at the foot of the bed where he left it.

“Phil,” Clint calls out, “Where’s my bag?”

“I put your stuff away. It’s all in the left hand side of the dresser; I left your weapons on top for you to decide where to put them.”

“I’m sorry,” Clint says, coming back into the doorway, “You _what_?”

“Are you committed to this or not?”

“That’s not the— that was a complete invasion of my privacy.”

“Clint,” Phil says in a pained tone, “You don’t have privacy from me; I’m your whiphand.”

“I don’t— you?! Are you—,” Clint breaks off with a growl and stalks back into the bedroom, not sure what he’ll do if he takes another step into the living room.

_‘You don’t have privacy from me.’_

Who the fuck does Phil think he is?

 _‘Your whiphand,’_ Clint’s not sure if the voice inside his head is his or Phil’s.

There’s so much he doesn’t know about whiphands, so much that isn’t online, that it’s just assumed everyone knows. 

Tasha would know. 

Calling her now feels like defeat. 

Still…

Phil’s left the two burner phones Clint brought on the dresser top with his bow and quiver case, blackjack, collapsible baton, brass knuckles, taser, and various knives. He sweeps all of it except one of the phones and the case into the top drawer with his socks and underwear.

He’ll hide a couple of the knives and the phones after Phil goes to sleep or if he leaves the apartment. For now he unlocks the burner and does some quick math to figure out which number to text. 

**🏹**

**Wkg. Er?**

**Nah. Ttyl?**

**Bit**

He turns off the phone and drops it in the drawer. He’ll check on it before bed. He wonders where Tasha is and what she’s doing. He definitely doesn’t want to bother her while she’s working, though _‘be in touch’_ could mean in a few minutes or in a few months; with their lifestyles neither one of them are easy to pin down. 

Well, until Clint voluntarily walked into SHIELD’s fucking cage. 

God, she’s going to laugh at him. 

Again.

This whole thing is her fault, really. 

She’s the one who said, _‘What’s the worst that could happen?’_

~~~

They’re at that bar in Bangkok Tasha loves; she’s working a mark but has time for Clint while Chambers avails himself of the ‘tourist’ opportunities Thailand has to offer.

“You’re slowing down, old man,” Tasha says, pouring herself another Mekhong from the bottle.

“It’s called pacing yourself, Itsy Bitsy.”

“Like a geriatric turtle.”

“Slow and steady, _zaika_ , slow and steady,” his Russian is for shit but that one he knows.

“I’ll bunny you.”

Clint laughs, “That doesn’t make any fucking sense.”

“So you _want_ me to put you in a cage and feed you nothing but lettuce and carrots.”

He raises his hands, laughing again, “I’ll be good, I’ll be good.”

He’d had Murdock look over SHIELD’s paperwork and there wasn’t anything too surprising. The immunity will hold up and while there were a couple passages about betraying SHIELD bringing treason charges, that seemed to be the worst of it. 

The chances of SHIELD killing him or being able to contain him against his will are vanishingly small; Clint is tough to catch and even tougher to kill. 

So now it’s just a matter of whether or not he pulls the fucking trigger. 

“This could still be a trap,” he says, taking a sip, trying not to grimace at the slightly Christmasy flavor and to enjoy the sweet and spicy burn of the liquor; he prefers it as a mixer but, like the rest of the patrons, neither one of them want to be disturbed by the staff and it was easier to just have a bottle for the table. 

“What’s the worst that could happen? Matt said everything looked on the up and up, right?”

He’s not a fan of the way she says Murdock’s name; he’s not jealous, he thinks of Tasha like a sister, he just doesn’t like the dom. 

And it has nothing to do with getting his ass kicked by a blind man the first time they met. 

“Yep, looks airtight. There’re provisions for sending me to prison or executing me but that’s with a trial so I’m not worried; things go sideways I’m not sticking around that long.”

“If they try to lock you up I’ll help you get out, it will be just like Lubyanka; and if they kill you, I’ll destroy them. Like Hanoi.”

“No killing. You can raze SHIELD to the ground but I don’t want you killing anyone for me.”

“I’ll consider it.”

He knows that’s the best he’s going to get. 

~~~

Clint grabs a pair of boxers, jeans, and one of his plain purple t-shirts, the tight one with the sleeves torn off at the shoulders. 

Phil looks like he’s reading on the couch, he glances up with a slight frown when Clint brings his shaving kit from the counter in Phil’s bathroom into the guest bath, but he can suck it. 

At least Phil hadn’t unpacked that. 

He swallows a couple Tylenol while he waits for the water to heat up and examines his bruises. Worst around the butterfly bandages holding the cut closed, they’re dark purple bordering on black now, becoming lighter the further away from the wound they get as they run up into his hairline and down his temple to his eye as if splashed there by a water colorist with a very limited palate. They’re sore but they don’t look like they need to be iced. He turns so he can see his ass, feeling a measure of pride at how red and purple it is. He’s going to be feeling it hard until the painkillers kick in, and even with then the welts are going to be a constant reminder of his punishment. 

But he can’t give in. 

The shower does a lot to ease some of his tension and also gives him time to think out from under Phil’s watchful eye. 

And that’s the part he’s having the most trouble with. 

When he adds it up, he’s really only spent about twelve hours, not counting sleeping and when he was on mission, being Phil’s submissive and he’s already chafing at Phil’s restrictions. 

Like this whole no touching himself business. 

He’s still semi hard from that spanking and just the memory of it has him filling out again and he strokes himself, swallowing a moan, no way to know how loud he’s being and knowing how thin the bathroom door is, Phil on the couch just to the other side. 

Fuck his hand feels good. 

He’s been in the shower for 8 minutes and 23 seconds; plenty of time left to get himself off before Phil suspects anything. 

And, fuck, that spanking. Something like that should be illegal.

He doesn’t get any further than remembering that last perfect slap of the belt; one hand pressing his fingers into his aching ass as the other strokes his cock and he’s cumming with a cut off groan. 

Shit. 

Maybe Phil hadn’t heard?

On the other hand, what is Phil going to do? Clint’s already shown that while a beating will put him into subspace, it doesn’t necessarily mean Clint will submit, and that’s not the kind of submission Phil wants anyway. 

And after yesterday, he can see that there are times when putting him in the corner will be effective but only if Clint actually thinks he’s done something wrong. Otherwise Phil can put him in the corner for as long as he wants; as impulsive as he is, Clint has the patience of a fucking sphinx. He once sat in a perch for three days in 100 degree heat just waiting for an opening in a sultan’s security. 

The Topkapi Dagger had almost been worth keeping for himself. 

Phil’s making this all harder than it needs to be. Clint understands this is different from what Phil’s used to, it’s different for Clint, too, but it feels like the only one making any compromises is Clint.

He shaves, once his jawline is smooth he runs his nails through his close cropped pubes but ultimately decides to leave them; if Phil wants him to be completely bare he’s going to have to ask for it and Clint’s planning on getting some concessions in return. 

He cleans his aids before putting them back in, then finishes drying off and gets dressed. It feels strange not putting on his boots; he’s spent so much time in so many conditions where being barefoot could be dangerous that it’s second nature, and the reason he’s staying barefoot zips through him like his orgasm had. 

He leaves his kit on the counter, laying claim to this space as his, drawing another line. 

Feeling one hundred percent more himself from having a shower and an orgasm he comes out and asks, “Do you mind if I eat something first. Sir?”

“In a second. Come sit down.”

Clint frowns but obeys, lowering himself gingerly to the cushion by Phil’s feet, legs to the side, weight slightly to one hip, his arms loose. 

Huh. 

Added benefit of the Sit position is that it keeps the pressure off his ass, probably intentionally. 

When he’s done with Post’s book he may want to look more into the theory and history of the positions and see what deeper meaning and purpose they have, if there’s more to them than just being pleasing for the dominant. It almost seems like submissives had equal say in what the positions are; they may hold deeper meanings to submissives than dominants, or help them stretch and maintain their bodies as a form of self discipline. 

He can see now how each of the positions feed into one another, one strengthening your core, another your back, or shoulders, the over extension of Offer, a move generally held for a shorter time as compared to the Kneel where your shoulders are very nearly relaxed but for longer stretches. How Inspection makes you feel almost powerful, Present desirable, and Obeisance lets you revel in your submission if you let yourself. 

He had always known that too many people see submissives as weak, or inferior. Even Phil, one of the most progressive doms Clint’s ever met, can’t get past his preconceptions; where his ideas of what it means to be submissive and what he knows about Clint clash he just sees a need for Clint to change. 

Clint had always thought he was alone in his struggle against the dominarachy; the last true dynamic activist had been Friedan and she had been murdered for it. Every now and then you’ll hear of some new up and coming NC but they inevitably fulfill the allegory that they just needed a dom with a firm hand to show them the way, destined to become another Oscar baity ‘Story Inspired By’ like Addie Wyatt.

It had never even occurred to him to look beneath the surface. His mother had been a textbook downtrodden submissive and Clint has to admit growing up in a traveling criminal circus may have not lent itself to the most accurate portrayals of healthy relationships. 

He’s never had a submissive friend, in his business sub’s are few and far between and all of them are at least as damaged as he is. Not that the dom’s are any better but it takes a rare kind of submissive to take to a life of crime and those that do either clique together or antagonize anyone who might try to get close or threaten their standing in the community. It’s not hard to figure out which direction Clint took.

Who knows, there might be a whole community of support if he can just figure out how to look for it. 

Phil doesn’t understand how Clint can be so perfect and so… disastrous at the same time. He had been furious at that first moan he heard coming from the bathroom but soon realized he should have come to expect it. 

A proper submissive would have apologized immediately and beg to be disciplined but he knows the chances of that are slim to none. 

Still, he gives Clint a few beats to feel the weight of Phil’s stare, for all the good it does him. 

“Don’t you have something to say?”

“Oh, buddy, I’ve got a lot to say but you know how I get when I’m hungry.”

Phil knows it’s one of the reasons Clint always has a couple protein bars on him while he’s at work. 

“When you misbehave, you are to come to me and confess immediately, then ask for your punishment.”

“Why the fuck would I do that?”

“Clint, we’ve talked about your attitude.”

“Excuse me, why the fuck would I do that, Sir?”

Phil closes his eyes, praying for patience; he opens them and looks at Clint and he’s ever seen anyone at his feet look less submissive than Clint does now.

“If you don’t clean up your mouth you’ll be washing it out with soap,” Phil doesn’t actually have any Sassy Sub Soap on hand but then he’s never brought home a submissive who needed it before. If Clint keeps it up, Phil will make him go out and buy it and he’ll have to tell the checkout clerk exactly what it’s for. 

“What?! You can’t seriously expect me to let you do that to me.”

“No, you’ll do it.”

“I—,” Clint pinches his lips together. They still haven’t settled him keeping his mouth open and now this?

It’s like Phil doesn’t want this to work. 

He closes his eyes for a second as he takes a breath before asking as politely as he can, “Why would I confess? Why would I ask for punishment? I— Phil, that’s just not going to happen.”

“Are you safewording?”

“No, of course not,” when Phil tilts his head, Clint adds, “Sir.”

“You want to be a good boy, don’t you?”

Oh, fuck him. It’s like a dagger to his heart. 

He shuts his eyes and swallows, then nods.

“That wasn’t rhetorical.”

He looks at Phil’s placid face and then away, almost whispering, “Yes, Sir.”

Phil can tell Clint is close to breaking, making him say the whole thing, that he wants to be a good boy would be a push too far, though part of him wants to push, wants to grab Clint by collar and force his head to the ground and hold him there until he admits it, how much he wants to be a good boy, _Phil’s_ good boy. 

But Phil did promise to be as lenient as possible and he _knows_ Clint wants to be good, it shines through every time he forgets to fight; he just needs to figure out how to get Clint to stop fighting him all the time. 

To stop fighting himself. 

“So, do you have something to say to me? Something you want to ask?” When Clint doesn’t respond immediately he follows up with, “Your punishment will always be worse if you try to hide it when you’ve been bad.”

Fine. So he’s a bad sub, it’s not like admitting it actually changes things. 

“Sir, I masturbated in the shower without permission,” he feels himself turn scarlet, “Please—,” he shakes his head, “Phil, I can’t. You knew I was a garbage sub—”

“Clint!” Phil interrupts him, “I don’t ever want to hear you say that again.”

“C’mon, Phil— Sir, we both know it’s true.”

“You’re… rough, I’ll give you that but you want to be good, and you are trying— for the most part. There’s a difference between being bad and being a bad submissive,” seeing Clint rub his ear Phil tries harder to make Clint understand, “You may misbehave, I’m not denying you have a naughty—”

“Naughty?”

“— streak a mile wide, but you're not a bad submissive.”

Clint raises an eyebrow.

“Say the words Clint; I know you can do it.”

Clint turns his head away with a pained frown but manages to bite out, “Please, punish me, Sir.”

“Good boy,” Phil knows how hard that was for Clint and he's proud of him. 

Clint grits his teeth at the falsehood but it’s not like he can keep Phil from saying it. 

“You have a choice, thirty minutes of edging yourself or an hour in a cock cage.”

Clint looks at Phil’s eyes, shocked, “What?!”

“Pick now or it will be both.”

“Fuck— I,” he’s been edged before but that was tied down six ways to Sunday and fighting every second of it; he can’t do it to himself, can he? He’s never been caged and it sounds awful but he just came so it can’t be that bad, right? But thirty minutes versus an hour, edging would be over faster—

“Alright, both—”

“Cage! I’ll take the cage. Sir,” and at Phil’s look adds, “Please, Sir, may I have the cage?” Clint shudders at the wrongness of the words.

“Stand and drop your pants, I’ll be right back.”

Clint obeys and feels his nudity more sharply than ever with the juxtaposition of having his shirt on while being naked from the waist down. 

Phil pauses in the dungeon doorway and watches Clint for a beat, his hands loose at his sides and his tight sleeveless shirt ending just above the swell of his rapidly bruising ass. 

Phil wants to bend Clint over, spread his cheeks, and dig his fingers into his marks as he eats Clint’s ass, mixing pleasure and pain until Clint can’t see straight, until he’s begging for Phil’s cock.

He shakes off the fantasy, they won’t get to have that unless Clint learns how to submit properly. 

Phil sits next to Clint with a tailor's measuring tape, a bottle of lube, and a clear silicon cage with several rings and a small brass padlock.

“Please, Phil, I’m sorry. Don’t do this. I swear I won’t touch my cock again without permission. _Please.”_

Clint’s so beautiful when he’s begging, Phil has to resist the temptation to make him beg all the time, “Maybe this will make you think of the consequences for misbehavior.”

“C’mon, Phil, it’s not fair, if I had known—”

“You don’t have to know. You have to obey. You don’t get to decide if the cost of a punishment is worth disobeying; it’s my job to make sure that it isn’t.”

 _His job._ Fuck. Of course this is just a job for Phil. He may want to fuck Clint, but he only wants it as a show of submission. He’s been crystal fucking clear about that. 

Phil sits on the couch and says, “Stand here,” pointing to the floor in front of him and Clint bites back the urge to curl his lip, shuffling around with his junk in the breeze and his jeans and boxers tangled around his ankles.

Phil’s hands are a little cool and it’s mildly unpleasant when he lifts up Clint’s balls and wraps the measuring tape under them around the base of his cock, and then he takes the measurement across the top and Clint’s cock twitches. 

“Do I need to get some ice?” Phil asks, making a mental note of Clint’s size for when he orders a custom cage; Clint’s promises to the contrary, Phil is pretty sure this won’t be the last time Phil has to cage him. 

“No, Sir,” Clint definitely doesn’t whimper and he starts running through SHIELD form numbers to direct his mind away from what Phil’s doing. 

Phil starts lubing up the cage and then Clint’s cock and balls. Clint feels himself start to get hard and does whimper this time before saying, “Yes.”

He doesn’t know much about cages but he knows it’s in his best interest to stay as soft as possible. 

“Yes?”

“Please, Sir may…” Clint closes his eyes, he can’t believe he’s asking this, “May I have some ice?”

“Wait here,” Phil stands and he’s close enough to brush up against Clint and Clint has to force himself to not take a step back.

Phil wraps an ice pack in a thin dish towel and gets into Clint’s space again as he sits down, taking pleasure in the vulnerable look on Clint’s face.

“I don’t— I’m okay now,” Clint says, just the threat enough to kill the beginning tendrils of lust that had started to flutter across his groin.

Phil’s smile is cruel, “We’ll want to be sure you're completely flaccid.”

“Phil, please,” Clint begs, “Don’t.”

If anything, Phil’s smile gets wider, “Hold still.”

“Plea—uhf, Phil,” he whines as Phil presses the wrapped ice pack against his cock. 

“Just a couple seconds, sweet boy.”

The pleasure of Phil’s words fight with the discomfort of his groin, the discomfort winning.

“There we go,” Phil says, taking away the ice and now his hand feels comparatively warm as he checks to make sure there’s still enough lube. 

Phil selects one of the rings and sets the others aside, before pulling Clint’s balls through the ring one at a time and then pushing his cock through after; it sure as hell isn't pleasant but it could be worse. He slips the cage itself over Clint’s cock and locks it in place. 

It doesn’t feel… bad. 

Just. 

Weird.

“Pants up. Your hour starts now. Go ahead and make breakfast and then we can finish your other punishment,” Phil says, reaching up and touching Clint’s lower lip with the tip of his index finger, reminding him that they still haven’t settled the matter of Clint keeping his lips parted and Clint’s glad for the last lingering effects of the cold as his cock struggles to respond. 

It’s such a relief to finally get his pants up, everything feels like it finishes defrosting almost immediately and he sighs.

“Next time we do this on the examination table.”

“Fuck, Phil!” Clint cries out as the image of being naked from the waist down in that chair, feet in the stirrups and legs spread wide so that Phil can stand between them as he fits Clint with a chastity device causes a surge of lust and there’s the discomfort bordering on pain that he was expecting, prevented from getting half hard and he tries to ease the pain by pressing his hand down on his cock, trying to catch his breath.

“Clint!” Phil’s sending Clint out for the soap as soon as they‘re through with his punishments. He grabs Clint’s wrist and yanks his hand away, eliciting a moan and a small thrust of Clint’s hips, “What am I going to do with you?”

Clint blushes, “I’m sorry, Sir. Please, I didn’t mean to,” Phil’s rough handling is the opposite of helpful but he knows better than to reach down with his other hand. 

There's that proper ‘Sir’ again and the way it makes Phil feel is addictive. 

“Get into Inspection,” Phil says, letting go of Clint’s wrist, waiting to see if he needs to help Clint with the position, but of course he doesn’t.

Spreading his legs out until his heels are just past his hips is interesting, for certain definitions of interesting, the movement pressing his caged cock against the front of his jeans, the soft cotton of his boxers not nearly enough cushioning, and Clint looks pleadingly at Phil as he links his fingers behind his neck. 

Phil’s drawn back to yesterday and Clint’s hands in the same position, but his attitude is a world of difference. Phil isn’t sure why he’s having trouble deciding which he likes better; it makes no sense that he’d be equally attracted to both. 

It must be a trick of his memory, of course he prefers Clint submissive and aching; what kind of dominant wouldn’t?

Phil leaves Clint in the living room to sweat a little while he gets out a set of fine gold chains with filigreed clips at each end. 

When he gets back to Clint he says, “Hold still,” before securing the end of each chain next to Clint’s collar then looping one chain around each wrist, clipping the hook to the chain with enough room for it to be loose but not so loose that Clint can just slip it off.

“Stand. Slowly, these are delicate, it wouldn’t take much to break them.”

Clint grimaces as he moves into the Stand position, lowering his arms and bringing his legs back in; reciting SHIELD forms has mitigated most of the pain but feeling bound by Phil now has ruined all that effort. When he reaches the end of the chain and finds that he can’t lower his hands below his waist he tilts his head back and moans then chokes back a whimper as the cage gets impossibly tight, “Phil, please, please, I’m sorry. I swear, please, I promise I won’t touch myself anymore.”

“I think we both know that’s not true. And since you seem to keep forgetting to call me, ‘Sir,’ I’ll be thinking of an appropriate punishment for forgetting it,” he’ll probably try mouth washing first, but he’s hoping the threat of an unknown punishment will be more effective, “For now go eat.”

Dear God, Phil has never had to punish a submissive this much, even less so in such a short amount of time. This is harder than he thought it would be but he realizes now more than ever how much Clint needs him.

“Would you like some, Sir?”

“No, thank you,” Phil says, sitting at the kitchen table and going back to his news feed, hiding the way Clint’s respectful offer makes him feel, “I’ve seen your ‘cooking’, and I’ve had breakfast. Try not to burn down my kitchen, please.”

“Come on, Phil, it’s just scrambled eggs. It will be fine.”

“My statement stands.”

Cooking while chained and caged is a lesson in humility that Clint isn’t soon to forget. For whole minutes at a time he can forget about both but then he goes to pick up the spatula or rub his throbbing ass and he reaches the limit of the chains, which his cock tries to respond to, and then he’s reminded that he’s locked in and Phil has the key and his cock tries to get even harder and the pain is so good/bad that he wants it to keep going as much as he wants it to stop and he wants more than anything to be able to press down, to try and relieve the pressure, or rip the damned thing off and he burns the eggs twice. 

He scrambles a dozen eggs and makes himself four pieces of toast; once the eggs are on the stove he drops some of the leftover rice into the pumpkin curry container and then puts that whole thing in the microwave to heat while he’s cooking. He debates not having any of the orange juice since it’s far enough back in the fridge he can’t reach it but Phil sees him struggle and asks, “Do you need to ask for help?”

Clint slumps his shoulders and quietly says, “Yes, Sir.”

When Phil doesn’t move Clint looks over and he realizes Phil is waiting for him to ask, “Will you get the juice for me, Sir?” When he still doesn’t respond Clint adds, “Please?”

Phil sets down his tablet and walks over, hip checking Clint out of the way and for a split second they’re like they were before and Clint feels a pang of something that might be called nostalgia.

Sitting at the table and eating is a little easier than cooking was; the chains sometimes get in the way but he’s never tugging at them and since he isn’t moving the cage is back to being pretty neutral, though every now and then he has to shift his weight from one cheek to the other to relieve the pressure on his ass and he’s reminded all over again of Phil’s dominion over him. 

Eating breakfast like this with Clint feels both familiar and new, the foolish part of Phil’s mind pictures endless weekends like this. If Clint were really Phil’s he would have Clint back in those sinful shorts of his, or maybe some lacy boxers, or nothing but the fine golden chains, perhaps the longer set so that he can loop Clint’s wrists up to his collar and then back down to wrap around Clint’s narrow waist, linking them through the lock of his cage and then another long line of delicate chain to caress his ankles the way Phil wants to do with his fingers, with his tongue.

Phil swallows and tries to will away his erection by focusing on the international reports coming in from the AP. 

Things feel normal enough in the spaces in between that Clint ventures, “Anything interesting, Sir?”

Nothing he wouldn’t say over breakfast on any other day; the only the barest difference in the way he says ‘Sir’.

“Apparently there was a small earthquake in Veracruz; one of the buildings downtown collapsed but, strangely enough, there were no injuries or fatalities. They think there must have been a smaller tremor that set the fire alarm off first and by some miracle the building was empty. Good job on that again.”

Clint preens, “Thank you, Sir.”

See. Normal. 

While Clint eats Phil tells him about interesting or funny stories. Phil gets angry at the civil unrest in Romania, Garrett was supposed to be calming things down in the Balkans, not making it worse. 

“I’m going to be on mop up again, aren’t I?”

“Probably. Garrett’s in country trying to convince Fury to give it a little more time to play out.”

“And if someone dies in the meantime?”

“We can’t save everyone, Clint, you know we can’t.”

“It doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try,” Clint says with a frustrated bite of toast that jingles his chains. 

“We save as many people as we can. Sometimes that doesn’t mean everybody. You have to learn to live with it, Clint, or the next time maybe no one gets saved.”

Clint swallows and says, “Send me in. Please? Sir.”

It feels different, begging Phil now, that little flicker of inflection adding a tenor that has never been there before. 

No. Normal. This is normal. This is just them. This is just Phil being a stubborn stick up the ass bureaucrat who needs to go out on a couple real missions and remember where he came from. 

“I’m sorry, Clint, but it’s not my call.”

“This fucking sucks.”

“Clint,” Phil says mildly, “Watch your mouth.”

Clint presses his lips together, tempted to say, _‘This fucking sucks,_ Sir _,’_ but he already knows how well that will go over. 

“I’m sorry, Sir. I’m trying,” he says earnestly, “I really am.”

Phil sighs, not because he doesn’t believe Clint, but because he does, “If you’re done eating, clean up and then go stand at Attention by the corner.”

“Yes, Sir.”

The chains make him clumsy as he does the dishes and they become a constant reminder of Phil’s cage. Twice he finds himself reaching for his cock, stopping just in time to keep the chain from breaking. This would be so much easier with real chains and Clint knows that’s the point. 

When he gets to the corner he realizes he has a problem, “Umm, Phil— Sir? I can’t get my hands right without risking the chains. I don’t want to break them.”

“You can remove them, but Clint?”

“Yes, Sir?”

“If you touch your cock they not only go back on but your hour will start over.”

He only has 33 minutes, 12 seconds left and Clint resolves not to touch himself as he unhooks the chains from his wrists and then his collar. He holds them in one hand as he gets his arms into Attention. 

“Good, Clint,” Phil says, “Give me the chains and then you can Kneel in the corner.”

Once again Clint surprises Phil, sinking down into Offering and kissing the chains before holding them over his head. 

He’s magnificent. 

When Phil takes the chains Clint turns around and faces the corner. He kind of misses their restraint, such that it was. Now the only thing holding him back his willpower, which always seems to come in short supply around Phil. 

Clint shifts his hips back and forth before giving up on getting comfortable on the cushion, his heels are going to hit bruises no matter how he Kneels, and he crosses his wrists in the small of his back and bows his head. 

“You’re to think about why you’re refusing to keep a properly submissive mouth, both in how you speak and in not keeping your lips parted. What do you expect your rebelliousness to accomplish? Five minutes, starting now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clint’s first text to Natasha is a bow and arrow emoji.


	15. Chapter 15

His rebelliousness.

His _rebelliousness._

He’s Kneeling here with his cock wrapped up like a Christmas present— voluntarily— and he’s fucking rebellious?

Where the fuck does Phil get off?

He knows Phil expects some simpering little pet who says _‘Sir’_ and _‘please’_ every other word but that’s just not Clint. 

Clint will admit that he may curse too much but what can you expect from someone who’s first word was ‘fuck’ and his second ‘asshole’; okay, technically his first word was ‘little’ but it was also part of his first sentence, being called _‘little fucking asshole,’_ more than his own name had kind of imprinted on him.

But yeah, he can try and clean up his language and use ‘properly submissive’ words, especially not knowing what his punishment will be if he doesn’t. 

He’d like to think that Phil wasn’t serious about washing his mouth out— and not even Phil tying Clint down and forcibly doing it. 

Making Clint do it to himself.

He’s not sure if he feels lucky or not that Phil didn’t make him put on the cage himself. 

The reminder of the chastity device is enough to get him to shift which makes him whimper. 

30 minutes 38 seconds left on Phil’s cage, 3 minutes 52 seconds left in the corner. 

If he had gone with the edging it would have been done by now. 

Or maybe Phil would have let (made?) Clint eat first, in which case it would only be getting started. 

He isn’t sure if he made the right choice or not. 

Fuck, Phil is devious. 

He needs to be focusing on his ‘rebelliousness’ and why he won’t keep his mouth open but he’s having trouble thinking anything at all with this God damned cage. 

He isn’t— okay, some of it is him rebelling but some of it is Phil being unreasonable. 

Clint should just fucking safeword. 

At least then he can prove how useless they are. 

The way Clint sees it, he’s only got three options: walk away, obey, or keep getting punished. 

None of them are great.

His problem with keeping his mouth open is the constant feeling that he’s a submissive, that he’s less than, that he only exists as some sort of thrall for a dominant, and he’s been fighting that his entire life.

But if he doesn’t find a way to compromise, Phil will eventually get so frustrated that _he’ll_ walk, and Clint doesn’t want that either. 

He could… he could commit to a certain amount of time each day, say the first fifteen minutes they get home. It would help get him in the right headspace, where he stops thinking of himself as Clint and has to start thinking of himself as a sub. 

The thought burns, like a lit cigarette twisting into his soul, but as long as he only gives away a small piece he should be able to still hold on to himself. 

Maybe it would be better to make it the last 15 minutes of the day. He’s already going to be practically naked in Phil’s bed. What’s one more layer of vulnerability, especially when he can go to his own bed (cot) afterwards and sleep it off. 

Yeah, okay, that works. 

Giving Phil his mouth for fifteen minutes and really focusing on keeping a respectful voice. He’s done worse for less. 

2 minutes, 6 seconds and 28 minutes, 52 seconds.

He definitely should have gone with the edging. 

No. 

No, because then he would be left feeling even more sexually frustrated than he already does. 

This whole whiphand thing would be a lot easier if he could just get Phil to tie him to the bed and fuck him. 

Maybe smack him around a bit, call him a filthy little whore, and let them both get off. 

But no; Phil wants his _Gift_ , as if that means anything. 

Is worth anything. 

Tasha’s going to laugh her fucking ass off when she hears what Clint’s gotten himself into. 

But she’ll still be there for him. 

They promised each other; in a world where they can’t count on anyone but themselves, they can count on each other. 

He remembers the first time he met her, the great Black Widow; only on the circuit for a couple months and already making a name for herself. 

Imaging his surprise when she turned out to be a fifteen year old girl. 

~~~

Clint is soaking wet and bone tired. 

He rubs the back of his BTE.

It’s nights like these where he wishes he had stayed with Carson’s. 

Seventeen and thinking he knew everything when he set off on his own. 

God he was so fucking young and stupid back then. 

But he was also right. They weren’t just stealing, they were killing and Clint’s moral compass may not point exactly north these days, there are some lines he refuses to cross. 

He’s just getting to the museum section of the Westchester County Archives when he sees her. 

She’s a slight little thing, all elbows and knees; she looks like a twelve year old dressed up to play cops and robbers and he would wonder what she’s doing here but she’s at the same climate controlled display he cased earlier today during his visit as a college freshman obsessed with pre-Revolutionary War history. 

He doesn’t make a sound, he knows he doesn’t, but still she turns, pulling a gun on him and he says, “Body!”

“What?”

“Body. Shoot me, you’ll have to deal with my body. We could team up instead, split the take? It’ll be easier with two anyway and a million dollars each ain’t nothing.”

“You are getting two million? Really?”

“Well, the thing is worth close to five. I doubt your fence is offering any better. Who is it? Wyngarde? Shaw? It can’t be Frost, she wouldn't double deal me like this.”

“You aren’t going after Xavier?”

“Who, the old professor dude— shit, you’re not here for the Denebian Diamond, are you?”

She smiles sharklike in the moonlight. 

“I am now. Thanks for the tip,” she starts to pull the trigger.

“Wait-wait-wait! Body remember? You leave me here, that's twice the crime scenes for the cops and I’m like 220, you really want to have to try to move me? Besides, Frost is fucking invisible when she wants to be and trying to get that thing sold on the open market you’ll be lucky to get a tenth of its value. You ever do a team up before? I’m Hawkeye. You may have heard of me,” he asks with a raised eyebrow and a smile to show off his dimple. 

He’s built quite the reputation in the two years he’s been on his own, if he does say so himself. There may not be honor among thieves but he’s made a name as being an exception and it’s served him well. 

He’s only been fucked over twice and left for dead once, which in his line of work is a miracle; it helps that he never returned the favor. Oh, his retaliation for the double crosses had been swift and brutal, but Clint doesn’t drop bodies. 

Ever. 

“I have. You may have heard of me, too. I’m the Black Widow.”

“Bullshit, you're just a kid, the Widow—,” he puts his hands up as her stance shifts and he can tell she’s about to kill him anyway, “Okay, not bullshit,” he’s still not sure he believes her, it wouldn’t be the first time someone tried to trade on another professional’s name; but it doesn’t look like she’s lying. 

Delusional maybe, but not lying. 

“Fine. But I’m keeping the half mil for the hit.”

“What if _I_ gave you the $500 grand and you skipped the killing part?”

“My employer wouldn’t like that.”

Clint thinks about what a fool he is for a fraction of a second and says, “The full two million, then. Whoever your employer is will understand getting outbid. That’s the nature of the game, right?”

“Why would you do that?” She asks, genuinely confused. 

“I’m kind of a fan of not murdering people. It’s sort of my thing.”

The money doesn’t really matter. He’s already rich enough to do whatever he wants whenever he wants, going solo hadn’t just been a good call for his conscience. He does what he does for the thrill, for being the best at something only he can do. 

A couple million to save a life is nothing,

And if she really is the Black Widow then he’ll be able to trade on ‘I knew her when’ at places like Sister Margaret’s for the rest of his life. Chances are whoever she’s working for won’t be willing to outbid him, leaving him relatively safe from the assassin. 

If she even is who she says she is. 

“I want an introduction to your fence, too.”

This time he does hesitate. Frost won’t like that.

“Okay, but you’ll owe me one.”

“You aren’t exactly negotiating from an advantage.”

He shrugs as he throws a smoke bomb, ducking and weaving as he charges her. He gets her around the middle and with an, “Oof,” from both of them they crash into the display case— he loses his advantage as he keeps them from knocking it over, its fragile contents worth their weight in gold. 

She hits him twice in the temple with the butt of her gun but he twists just in time so it’s only a glancing blow. He manages to get the gun away from her with a nerve pinch and tosses it across the room. They separate and start circling each other in the slowly dissipating fog. 

“Why do you even care about some old man?”

He doesn’t fall for the feint, going left instead of directly towards the sound of her voice and he realizes she went right, a mistake that costs him as she’s on him in a flurry of kicks that he just manages to block.

“Told ya— hff— not a fan— uff— of murder,” he’s able to turn it around on her, using his greater upper body strength to grab her leg and pull her into a grapple. 

This, like most times he’s allowed himself to get close to someone, especially a redhead, is a mistake as she uses his hold as leverage, following the movement through to get her other leg up and then his neck is between her thighs and he’s heading ass over teakettle. 

She pins him to the floor, his boot knife to his throat. The smoke is fading behind her and she looks like some kind of avenging child god.

“Okay. Maybe you are the Black Widow.”

She tilts her head, “You are a strange man, Hawkeye.”

He smiles, “I live to defy expectations.”

“Something we have in common then.”

She makes up her mind in that moment and looks like she’s going to add his knife to her belt but she sheaths it back in his boot. She stands and steps back, “I get the full take on the diamond and you introduce me to your fence.”

“And you don’t kill anyone.”

“Deal,” she says, holding out her tiny hand.

He shakes it, her bones feel delicate even through their gloves and there’s a bit of cognitive dissonance knowing how deadly she is. God she’s so _young._ He feels a protective urge well up inside and wonders if she'd be willing to work as partners for a while.

“Deal.”

~~~

3\. 2. 1. That’s the corner done.

26 minutes, 46 seconds left on being caged by Phil. 

He gives it a few more seconds and then says, “Phil? Sir?”

“Okay, you can get up,” Clint gingerly gets to his feet, stretching his arms over his head as he does. Phil swallows as his mouth waters, watching the play of Clint’s muscles. 

Fuck, this fucking cage is killing him. He’s never touching his cock where Phil can hear again. 

He kind of wants to masturbate as soon as possible just out of spite. 

Also because he’s never thought about touching himself more than he has in the last half hour. 

He turns and steps off the cushion, coming to Attention.

Phil had watched as the set of Clint’s shoulders had softened over the five minutes but any sense of relief he had that he was finally getting through to his submissive is dashed the second Clint turns around and Phil sees the defiant look in his eyes. 

What is he going to do?

“Come Sit over here.”

Clint steps over to the couch and hesitates. He’s about to sit on the couch but Phil’s eyes flick down to the cushion by his feet so Clint lowers himself as gracefully as he can to his knees with his hands behind his back and Phil’s cage working against him, before shifting his weight and relaxing his arms to his sides.

“What did you do to earn your punishment?”

Clint fights not to sneer, ‘nothing’, “I’m ‘rebellious’ and won’t keep my mouth open.”

Phil sighs and prompts, “‘Sir’?”

“I’m ‘rebellious’ and won’t keep my mouth open. Sir.”

“And?”

“And what? Sir.”

“What did you think about?”

“Mostly that you’re an uncompromising hardass. Sir.”

“Clint!”

“You asked.”

Phil makes a frustrated sound in the back of his throat, this isn’t going at all how he expected after the first time he had put Clint in the corner and he’s running out of ideas.

“I am willing to compromise,” Clint says, almost as a dare. 

Phil tilts his head at that. Well, at least it’s something. He makes a ‘go on’ gesture.

“I’ll give you fifteen minutes at the end of the day with my mouth open and I will work on my swearing if you ease up on this ‘submissive voice’ sh— crap.”

Phil clenches his teeth and when he thinks he has his irritation under control he’s able to see this as a good thing. Clint hadn’t been willing to budge at all before. Maybe it has been a mistake to try for full immersion. 

“An hour a day, to be split up at my choosing, for the next two weeks and then we discuss increasing the time.”

Clint recognizes this as the best offer he’s going to get and he can put up with it for that long. Worst case is that Phil makes him do it for a couple minutes every hour and if it gets to be too much he’ll just stop and accept the consequences.

_‘Even if it’s the fucking cage? Or the ring gag?’_

Yeah. 

Even if. 

“Okay, an hour a day, that you can spread out, and we come back to it in two weeks. Sir.”

“As to your language, you owe me a minimum amount of respect and deference as your whiphand. I understand it’s difficult for you but I really don’t think you’re trying your best.”

“Bullsh— Bull. Phil, I’ve been swearing my entire life, you don’t break a lifetime of habit overnight,” Clint huffs, “I’m _trying_. I swear to fu— to God, I’m trying,” he says, belatedly adding, “Sir.”

“Clint,” Phil says with a pained expression, “You’re one of the smartest, most capable men I know. I can see you think you're trying but I know you can do better. You’re going to go down to the store and pick up some Sassy Sub Soap and I want you to tell the cashier exactly why—”

“Upshot,” it’s out before Clint can stop himself, the lightning bolt of fear hits him so deep and suddenly that he’s almost numb from it and he instinctively turns his body so that he’ll take the hit on the uninjured side of his face.


	16. Chapter 16

Phil doesn’t know if he’s more shaken by the fact that Clint’s safeworded or that his body language is screaming that he expects Phil to strike him for it.

“Oh, honey,” he says, his heart breaking. 

Phil had thought Clint had a soft limit around humiliation in front of their coworkers. Phil hadn’t realized how deep it went, how much of a limit it actually is. It’s another area where Clint’s inexperience is working against him; most submissives his age would have a comprehensive list of their limits but it isn’t that Clint has trouble expressing them, it’s like he doesn’t even know they're there until he runs into them like a brick wall, “Come here.”

Clint doesn’t hide his confusion as Phil pulls him up into his lap sideways. Clint slips his arms around Phil’s neck and clings to him like a life preserver, grimacing as it jostles Phil’s cage (21 minutes, 33 seconds) and, fuck, he hadn’t even thought of having to leave the apartment caged and his fear ratchets up, “Please, please don’t make me do this, Phil— Sir! Sir. I’ll— I’ll try harder, I swear, please don’t—”

“Shhhh, shhh. It’s okay, sweet boy, you’re okay. You don’t have to. Clint, I promise, I will _never_ hit you or punish you in any way if you need to safeword. In fact I’m proud of you for recognizing your limits and letting me know.”

“Really?” Clint looks at Phil with doubt and no small amount of trepidation then his eyes flash wide, “—Sir! Sir. I’m sorry,” he pinches his eyes shut for a second as he reiterates in his mind, _‘Sir Sir Sir’;_ fuck, he can’t forget again _,_ “Sir.”

Phil kind of hates that just the threat of a little light humiliation has worked where nothing else has.

“Really, I promise. I didn’t realize how much it would upset you. I’ll go pick up the soap myself.”

“You don’t have to, Sir. I’ll be good, Sir, I promise, Sir. Please, Sir,” Clint hides his eyes in Phil’s neck. God, look at himself he’s such a fucki— such a baby, freaking out over nothing. The cashier probably sees worse every day; but the thought of doing it, of having to admit to a stranger that he’s a bad sub, makes him feel viscerally ill the way that nothing has before. 

Phil hides a frown at Clint’s overcorrection but doesn’t let him know it’s more than Phil expects. If he can get Clint to speak properly by overshooting and then having him pull back maybe it’s for the best.

“Talk to me, sweetheart, tell me what pushed it too far?”

“It— everything, Sir? I don’t know, Sir.”

Phil gives Clint room to think it through, not doing anything other than holding him and letting him feel Phil’s deep even breaths which Clint subconsciously starts trying to match. 

They sit like that for over a minute before Phil says, “Let’s talk it through, okay? I need to know exactly what happened so I don’t do it again.”

Clint’s silent for several long seconds before he says softly, “Okay. Okay, Sir. But…”

“But?”

“Can… can I sit next to you, Sir? Please?”

Phil considers it for a moment. He really needs Clint to get used to not sitting on the couch but he knows Clint’s trying to get a little distance in order to get his thoughts in order and he knows Clint still needs a little closeness after what just happened. 

The kitchen table would put them back on even ground but that’s too much distance. 

“Okay, you have my permission to sit on the couch next to me, but only for this discussion.”

Clint nods, “Yes, Sir. I understand, Sir.”

Phil helps Clint slide off his lap until they’re sitting side by side, Clint’s sore ass sinking into the cushion, his leg pressed up against Phil’s and their shoulders brushing each other.

Clint’s spine straightens and he feels like himself for the first time since he got back from his run. 

He takes a deep, clearing breath. 

“Okay. I think I’m okay now. Sir.”

The ‘Sir’ is less panicky, but still sincere, so Phil forgives the delay. He still resolves to pick up the soap. Even after his obvious terror, that wasn’t enough to keep Clint on track. 

“So, are you ready to tell me what triggered your reaction?”

“I… I— No,” he shakes his head, “I’m sorry, Sir, no.”

“That’s okay, we can sit here for as long as you need. Would you like something to drink? A snack? There’s still some fruit left.”

“No. Thank— actually, yeah, if you don’t mind,” Clint says, rubbing the back of his ear and then catching himself, looking a little embarrassed and then, “Damn it! _Sir_ ,” and then he looks like he’s about to curse at himself for cursing as well but instead he says, “I’m sorry, Sir; I really am trying.”

God, calling Phil ‘Sir’— no not just calling him ‘Sir’, calling him ‘Sir’ and _meaning_ it that really does his head in.

“I know you are, Clint,” Phil gives him a brief sideways hug and resists pressing a kiss to Clint’s forehead, even though all of his dominant instincts are telling him to wrap his submissive up in his love—

No, not love. He can’t let himself go there.

Or maybe… 

Maybe love of a friend for another friend. 

He can allow himself that much, at least. 

Phil goes into the kitchen and leaves Clint to his thoughts, bringing him back a large glass of water which he starts drinking immediately. 

Phil takes his time fixing Clint a small plate of watermelon and strawberries, then adds some cheese and crackers and pours them both a cup of coffee. Clint burns through calories like a furnace. 

He brings over the plate in one hand and the mugs in the other, setting them down carefully on the glass topped coffee table. 

Clint grabs the coffee like it’s his last dying hope and downs half of it in one long swallow, then sighs, the last bit of tension easing from him, until he shifts and grimaces, remembering Phil’s cage.

5 minutes, 58 seconds.

Almost there. 

Fu— he scrambles, then remembers his mom’s swear word. Futz, he hates this thing. 

Futz doesn’t quite have the same impact as fuck but he thinks he can make it work.

“How are you doing, honey?” Phil says, sitting next to him.

“Better, Sir, thanks. I mean there’s still,” he gestures towards his lap with a raised eyebrow and Phil chuckles lightly.

“Well, maybe you’ll think twice before touching your cock without permission.”

Clint’s look turns sour, “You can say that twice. This thing is awful.”

“You’re just lucky I went with an easy cage. It happens again and I won’t be nearly so nice.”

“This is easy!? Are you fu— are you kidding me?”

“Not at all. I have tighter cages, one with spikes. Or I could go the other direction, though I prefer to use those for fun,” Phil smiles evilly.

“Fun?” Clint’s not sure he likes the sound of that.

“Different cock rings. Gates of hell or spiked rings can be especially nice.”

“That… doesn’t sound nice. Sir.” His cock, on the other hand has a different opinion, one that Phil recognizes immediately from Clint’s whimper, “Please, Sir? Can I have it off now?”

Phil checks his watch and sees that Clint has about five minutes left and is tempted, he’s been through a lot this morning, but Phil’s already given more concessions than he ever planned on. 

He means Clint’s attitude and pushback on basic rules, not waiting for Clint to be ready to give his Kiss, and his Gift. Phil doesn’t begrudge Clint taking the time he needs, as much as some darker part of himself he never knew he had wants to take Clint, whether Clint wants it or not.

He feels it even now, the urge to push Clint to his knees and take his mouth or fold him over the back of the couch, slick up his cock, and push into Clint’s ass as Phil pins him down, seeing his bruises under his fingers, Clint’s struggling and cries only fueling Phil’s passion. 

Phil feels his own cock get hard and pushes down on his fantasies, ones he never let himself have before when he thought Clint was a dominant but now that he knows Clint’s a submissive, that it’s in his nature to want to become a vessel for his whiphand’s lust, it’s all Phil can do to resists the temptation. 

No. 

No this isn’t him. 

He doesn’t go for primal submission. 

He likes his scenes to be elegant. 

Refined. 

Limits and desires discussed and mapped out, the graceful twisting of rope and the long slow slide from pleasure to pain and back to pleasure again. 

He closes his eyes and takes a breath, thinking about the last meeting he had with Fury to go over mission statistics; nothing is guaranteed to kill his erection faster. 

“I said an hour and I meant an hour.”

Clint bows his head, “Yes, sir.”

Clint’s submission sends a throb through Phil and his sadistic streak has been awakened; he can’t resist saying, “Have you ever worn gates of hell? It’s not just the constriction; your cock will be beautiful bound up in metal and leather for me. I’ll keep you aroused to the point of pain with my hands and my nails. Maybe my mouth if you’ve been especially good.”

“Phil! Sir! Please, don’t,” Clint begs dismayed and aroused by Phil’s words, at the promise they hold. He knows it could all be his if he would just let himself submit the way Phil wants him to. 

“I’ve been generous. I saw how you reacted to the belt. You have a taste for pain. I could have spent the last hour teasing you and you would have let me. Telling you all the things I’m going to do to you, the ways I’ll make you sing in agony.”

“Oh, God,” Clint digs his hands into the couch cushions to keep them off his throbbing cock, “Please stop, Sir.”

“Think about it Clint, if I had gone with a cock ring instead of the cage, forced you to stay hard while still refusing to let you touch your cock. Maybe not even touching it myself. Just telling you all the things I want to do to you will be torture enough, won’t it?”

“Sir— this is— _please_ ; this is just cruel.”

“Yes,” he says with dark amusement, “Yes it is. Think how much worse it will be when I lock you up in the gates, get you hard and aching, and take a crop to your cock and balls.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Phil,” not ‘if’, _when._ The pain surges, his body’s need to get hard fighting against the constriction of Phil’s cage and Clint closes his eyes and sinks back into the couch, trying to breath through the pain, “Please, you’re fucking killing me.”

“Clint, language.”

Clint eyes start to sting with tears, “I’m sorry, Sir, I didn’t— please, it hurts. You’re hurting me.”

“Not as much as taking a crop to you right now will.”

“Fu-tz. Please. Please?” He’s not sure anymore if he’s begging Phil to stop talking or to follow through on his sinful words, he just knows he can’t keep resisting this, “No more teasing, Sir? I can’t—”

“Imagine me securing you to the examination table and spreading you out, exposing every sensitive part of your body to me. Those straps are strong. You can struggle as much as you want and you’ll never escape me, never escape what I’ll do to your body.”

Clint starts trembling, it’s not so much the pain he’s in now, or the way he’s being teased, it’s knowing he could have it if he just let himself, all he would have to do is let go, be the submissive Phil wants him to be, but he can’t. He doesn’t know what broken thing inside of him is stopping him but it is. Tears leak out the corners of his eyes as he begs, “Please, please, Sir,” oh, God, it’s not just the torment, it’s that it’s _Phil_ doing it, that he’s calling _Phil_ ‘Sir’, that _Phil_ is going to ruin him, “Mercy. I’m begging you, please don’t do this to me. I promise, I promise I’ll never touch my cock again without your permission. I was going to. I was going to wait until you went to sleep and jerk off just to prove I have some control over it but I don’t, it’s yours, Phil, I promise it’s yours just make it stop, please?”

Phil feels a flare of possessive anger at Clint’s confession; not at what he had been planning to do but that if Clint had he would have kept it from Phil.

“Clint,” he says, but then his watch beeps, “You’re done. What did you do to earn your punishment?”

“I… I just told you I wasn’t going to do it again?” Clint says in confusion.

“Clint, every time we finish a punishment, I’m going to ask you what you did to earn it and you’re to repeat your offenses so we’re both clear in the lesson you’ve learned. Now, what did you do to earn your punishment? And remember your ‘Sir’s.”

Clint feels a little stupid for not having seen the pattern, but not as dumb as he feels saying, “I masturbated in the shower, Sir.”

“And?”

“And? Sir?”

“And you didn’t confess it right away.”

“And I didn’t confess right away, Sir.”

At Phil’s raised eyebrow Clint tries, “And I promise not to touch myself without permission,” Phil’s look becomes stern. Clint huffs, “And to confess when I’ve been bad.”

“Good boy,” Clint shivers at the elevator drop too good feeling he always gets, “I’m proud of you and I forgive you. Do you want me to take the cage off here or in the dungeon?”

“I— fu-utz. It’s, uh, it’s not going anywhere for a minute,” Clint had started to recover right up into that _‘good boy’_ of Phil’s and the need and shame that strikes through him every time Phil says it.

“I’ll go get the ice,” Phil says, standing.

“Wait! No,” Clint starts to reach out and lets his hand fall back to his side, “Please, Sir. It will go away on its own as long as…”

“As long as…?”

“You stop teasing me, Sir,” Clint is worried that it will always feel a little weird, a little thrilling, a little right to call Phil, ‘Sir’.

He’s even more worried that it won’t. 

Phil isn’t sure if it’s the way Clint says ‘Sir’ or if he’s actually being rational when he gives in, saying, “It should come off now but since you confessed you were going to misbehave and you’ve promised not to go through with it, I won’t get the ice. But Clint?”

“Yes, Sir?”

“If you do masturbate again without permission, this will all seem like a cake walk. Have I made myself clear?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“All of it.”

“Yes, Sir,” Clint tries to swallow his frustration, unsuccessfully based on Phil’s reaction, “If I masturbate without permission you’ll make sure the punishment for it will be even worse than this was.”

Phil sighs, even in this Clint is still defying him, giving his own interpretation of Phil’s words instead of repeating them back exactly.

Clint is always yielding and fighting at the same time and Phil thinks he’s starting to lose his mind because some part of him likes it; and that part of him seems to be growing by the hour.

He likes that Clint is a challenge, that he isn’t docile and sweet like the submissives Phil normally scenes with. It’s also been awhile since he’s been a whiphand and he had forgotten what it was like to have to think about a submissive’s long term needs, having gained a preference for uncollared submissives or ones with whiphands who like to share. 

“Good boy.”

He also loves watching Clint react to praise, soaking it up like the first drops of rain in the desert. 

He feels a wave of sorrow as he realizes how apt that metaphor may be. 

“Now, while you’re getting control of yourself, do you want me to remove it here or in the dungeon?”

“I was hoping— could you let me do it by myself; in the bathroom? Sir.”

“I’m not sure I can trust that you’ll keep your touching to the bare minimum. I think it will be better if I do it.”

“Please, Sir? I’ll be good. I… I know you don’t have any reason to believe me, Phil— Sir, but I will. It…” he looks away, unable to articulate the way it makes him feel; vulnerable and embarrassed and… and like he’s the bad sub he knows he is, but there’s also an easier reason and one that might be good enough for Phil, “I won’t need the ice if I do it myself,” as long as he doesn’t think about all the wonderfully horrible things Phil just said. He looks at Phil pleadingly, “And right now… your hands— it would be too much. Sir. Any touch from you would feel too good and I would need the ice after all.”

For a moment Phil’s tempted to still do it himself just for the pain it would cause Clint. That Clint would let him inflict, but for all that he wants to do everything he said to Clint, he wants Clint’s submission first. Teasing him further, possibly to the point he breaks isn’t what Phil wants, he wants Clint to come to him on his own.

“Go. Wash and dry the cage when you're done and put it away with the others. Then come back and you can sit on the couch again while we talk about you safewording.”

“Ugh. Do we have to, Sir? I… it won’t happen again, I promise.”

Phil sounds pained when he says, “Clint—”

“I’ll do better, Sir, I… I promise. I’ll… I’ll take this off and then, I’ll,” he takes a fortifying breath, “I’ll go to the store and g-get,” he swears softly why is this so hard? It’s just picking up some God damned soap from the God damned store; he’s done a million harder things for dominants he didn’t even fucking like, “Fuck, I’ll get the—”

“Clint,” Phil touches Clint’s shoulder, “I already told you, you don’t have to; we can get deeper into this but I want you to go take the cage off first, all right?”

Phil holds the key out to Clint.

“I—,” Clint looks like he wants to argue but he closes his mouth and nods his head as he stands up next to Phil. He takes the key and at the last second kisses it before taking three careful steps back and turning to enter into the bathroom. 

Thinking about having to humiliate himself has killed Clint’s erection faster than anything else could, though he still needs a little lube to slip everything off. 

He moans in relief and then takes a sharp breath, afraid that Phil will think he’s pleasuring himself. He’s quick with washcloth and towel cleaning off the lube and then pulls his pants and underwear back up, grateful it’s over, regardless of what any inner voice might say otherwise. 

He hadn’t even been tempted to touch himself, and he wonders what that says about him. 

What that means. 

This is all going far too fast. 

Why is he resisting?

He braces his hands on either side of the sink and looks himself over; messy hair and bruised face are par for the course, but there’s a softness in his eyes, a vulnerability that he’s not sure that he likes. 

He knows where this ends up. 

Alone and heartbroken crying on Tasha’s shoulder as she tries to comfort him with peanut butter vodka milkshakes and old Kung Fu movies. 

He washes the cage, a slight frown marring his brow as he thinks about the path ahead and his options. 

When he comes out of the bathroom with the cage Phil is on the opposite end of the couch, watching. Waiting. 

“I was good, Sir. I… I know I moaned but that was just because it felt so good coming off. I didn’t touch myself. Sir,” he explains, his heart in his throat.

“Good boy. I believe you,” Clint feels a wave of warmth and contentment, the typical shame at the words strangely absent, “Once you’ve put your cage away come join me on the couch. We need to talk about your safeword,” Clint stiffens, “You aren’t in trouble. I promise, I won’t ever have you doing something that will humiliate you in public but we need to talk about where your boundaries are so that I don’t intentionally hurt you in the future. Okay?”

“I— Yes, Sir,” he says, ignoring the heated feeling of his cheeks. 

He walks into Phil’s dungeon and wonders if he’s resisting to give himself as much time as possible with Phil. 

To delay the inevitable for as long as he can. 

Fuck— futz it. 

He’s done denying them now to protect himself later. 

He puts away the cage, letting his fingers linger over what can only be the gates of hell. 

_‘Soon,’_ he promises himself, then takes a fortifying breath as he realizes he’s fully committed.

This is going to hurt like hell when it crashes and burns but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t make the most of it before it happens. 

He pads down the hallway and into the living room. He thought he would feel terrified in this moment just before the leap but he's the opposite. 

Calm. 

Sure. 

Even when it goes bad, he knows it won’t be because Phil hurts him. Phil is the safest person he knows.

Clint safeworded and Phil held him. 

Comforted him. 

He isn’t going to force Clint to humiliate himself.

Clint thinks… Clint thinks maybe Phil never will.

Clint trusts Phil. 

Completely. 

And there’s a freedom in it. 

A lightness. 

Like he’s been carrying this burden all his life and now there’s Phil, lifting it from him.

He doesn’t know what tomorrow will bring; or Monday when they get back to the ‘real’ world. 

The landscape of his life is changing faster than he can track but if Clint is any one thing it’s adaptable. 

Clint pushes the coffee table out of the way to give himself more room.

“Clint, what are you— Clint?”

Clint flows to his knees and rests his ass, aching from Phil’s belt, on his heels as he bends until his forehead is on the soft carpet. He stretches his arms out in front of him towards Phil, palms up.

“I’m ready, Sir. Please,” he says, his voice deep with meaning, “Accept the Gift of my submission.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The way I have had ‘rodnoy’ explained to me is: “It is “dear” with a family feel to it. It sounds like “you’re my family” or “my soul mate”. Like “you’re in my blood/soul”. It’s more than just emotions, it’s some deeper connection that is beyond them.”

For a second, Phil can’t breath and he feels like there’s a light pouring through him, filling him.

And then his breath stutters as he questions it, why now? What changed? Not thirty minutes ago Clint was combative and angry and now he’s the most sweetly submissive vision Phil has ever seen. 

He’s _never_ had a submissive in this position before, in Lowest Obeisance, and it sends a surge of dominance through Phil, bringing all of his sovereign need to possess and protect to the forefront. 

It’s an addictive feeling and he wants everything Clint is offering like nothing he’s wanted before but he’s afraid this is only because of how vulnerable Clint feels from using his safeword. He’s never seen anything drop a submissive into subspace so quickly and while he’s sure now that Clint has used his safeword in the past, Phil’s heart breaks at the thought that this is the first time it’s ever been honored. 

He has to play this carefully, he doesn’t want Clint’s Kiss while he’s too drunk on subspace to understand what he’s doing— he wishes it was for an altruistic reason like protecting Clint, but really he’s protecting himself. He can’t accept Clint’s Kiss like this if Clint is only going to turn around and resent him for it. 

At the same time, he can’t reject Clint when his defenses are so low, Phil can’t risk hurting him knowing that at best Clint will close up or lash out and at worse it could throw him into sub drop. 

“Kneel for me, my good boy,” Phil says, taking in how the words trigger a full body shudder from Clint.

 _Good boy._ Yes, that’s what he wants to be, not just a good boy, but _Phil’s_ good boy, and he slowly pulls himself back into a proper Kneel, rolling his spine up, drawing his hands in so that the back of his wrists skim the inside of his thighs, turning his hands to frame his cock as he comes up between his spread legs, his cock pressing up against the taut denim, not touching, _offering_ , pressing his fingertips in and he moans at the pressure as he brings them over and around his hips, down to cup his ass, pressing his fingers into Phil’s bruises, and the sweet ache he feels has him tilting his head back with a soft moan. He brings his head back down and draws his hands up to rest loosely at the small of his back, his wrists crossed and he brings his chin back down so that he’s looking at Phil through his heavy lidded lashes.

He’s been watching Phil’s face as he watched Clint’s hands, seemingly unable to look away, and so he knows the exact moment Phil’s gaze is drawn up Clint’s body, lingering, taking his time to take in all Clint has on display, the long thick line of his cock against his jeans, the stretch of his shirt across his eight pack and pecs, his nipples hard, the flex of his arms and shoulders from keeping his wrists behind him. His eyes pause at Clint’s mouth and he gasps as Clint licks his lips and then parts them for Phil.

Then Phil’s dragging Clint up Phil’s body and into his lap, one hand twisting into the waistband of Clint’s jeans, the other grabbing his collar and Clint moans as Phil brings their mouths close, “ _Oh, Sir._ ”

That stops Phil, something ringing off, and he doesn’t know why, this is all he ever wanted, except no, he doesn’t want to hear Clint call him ‘Sir’ he wants it to be his name on Clint’s lips, and he’s struck with a bolt of confusion.

No, no he’s a high protocol dom, he’s known who he is and what he’s about since he was a teenager, but in that moment it isn’t ‘Sir’ he wants, it’s ‘ _Phil’_ and he whispers, “Not yet, sweetheart,” and he drinks Clint’s whimper from his mouth but finds the strength to set Clint back so that Phil’s leaning into the corner of the couch, Clint straddling his legs. Clint’s wrists are still at the small of his back, dear God he’s _perfect_. Phil grabs Clint’s hips and rolls his cock up against Clint’s hot ass, making him whimper again.

“Please, please, Sir, let me serve you. I’ve never— it’s never been like this, Sir,” Clint rocks his hips down, meeting Phil’s thrusts with little cut off moans and whimpers.

“There’s never been anyone like you, Clint. I want us to wait, I want it to be right. Can you wait for me, sweetheart?” 

Phil’s a fool, Clint’s begging Phil to take advantage of him and Phil says _‘wait’_? 

Something’s wrong with him. 

No. 

No what’s wrong is that it _would_ be taking advantage of Clint and Phil can’t do that, he lo— yes. He loves, Phil can admit that to himself now, he loves Clint too much to do that to him. 

Phil stops moving under Clint, his hands firm on his hips, keeping Clint still.

“I— why, Sir?”

“I want us both to be ready. For now, I’m honored to accept your Gift, just as you are.”

“But don’t you— I thought— what about my Kiss?”

“Here,” Phil holds up his right palm, and warns, “Chastely, Clint.”

Clint pouts then turns his head so that Phil’s hand is cupping Clint’s smooth jaw. Keeping his eyes on Phil’s he nuzzles his way to Phil’s palm and then presses his lips to the center; his eyes flutter shut as he feels himself sink further into his submission. 

Fuck-futz. Why did no one ever tell him it could be like this. He wants to stay here forever, in this cloud of— not pleasure, not exactly, more like satisfaction, or… fulfillment. 

Phil starts to pull his hand away and Clint whimpers, following it but Phil stops him with his thumb on Clint’s lower lip, “Shhh.”

Clint stops and looks at Phil, trying to show him all the things Clint can’t say, his longing, is need, his—

His love.

He parts his lips beneath Phil’s thumb and and much as he wants to flick his tongue out he holds back; if Phil wants him to act chaste, he can do that. 

For Phil. 

Phil can’t help himself from increasing the pressure on Clint’s lip, the thin line of dark blue around Clint’s pupils going even thinner as he lets Phil slowly open his mouth to its comfortable limit, then just a little further and Clint moans but still keeps his tongue to himself. 

Then Phil is testing him further, sliding his thumb up Clint’s lip and all the way into his mouth, still not touching anything other than Clint’s lip and Clint can’t hold back his staccato whimper as Phil pulls it out and pushes it in again, Phil’s eyes are dark with need and keeping his mouth open for Phil, not wrapping his lips around Phil’s thumb as he thrusts it in and out of Clint’s mouth, not sucking him like Clint wants to, like Phil _deserves,_ is one of the hardest things that Clint’s ever done. 

“God, _Clint,_ you’re so good for me, you’re perfect, just like this, sweetheart,” and Clint’s whimper becomes a whine. 

Phil draws his thumb down Clint’s chin and then uses the top of it to slowly close Clint’s mouth until his lips are just barely open then he runs it across Clint’s lower lip, and he repeats, “Just like this.”

_“Please, Sir.”_

Sweet merciful heaven it’s almost too much but somehow Phil holds himself back. 

“No, that’s enough for now,” it was more than Phil meant to take but something about Clint makes him irresistible, and if Phil doesn’t stop now he’s going to end up fucking Clint on his couch and Clint deserves better than that, he deserves cuffs and ropes and pain that makes him sweat and cry and beg for release, “Come here, I want to feel you against me.”

“Yes, Sir,” Clint says, happy to have an order, any order, to obey.

Phil arranges them so that Clint’s covering him like a blanket, his head on Phil’s chest, his arms holding Phil’s sides. He can feel Phil’s cock pressing against him just under his ribcage and Clint wants to rub up against his Sir but he's being good, he’s Phil’s good boy.

Phil kneads Clint’s shoulders feeling him relax into Phil with a soft hum.

The coffee table is out of reach now and Phil asks softly, “Can you pull the coffee table closer, honey?”

Clint reaches out and takes the closest leg, dragging the steel and glass table across the carpet with an impressive flex of his bicep, then puts his hand back against the side of Phil’s ribs where Phil had placed it, giving Phil a questioning look.

Phil takes a strawberry from the plate and holds it up to Clint’s mouth and asks, “Is this okay?”

Clint’s eyes flick warily from the fruit to Phil’s eyes and Phil isn’t sure if he think’s Phil will pull it away, or force it on him or what, but Phil’s patient and he can wait for Clint. He’s hoping this is far enough from whatever twisted image Clint has of hand feeding that he will accept it, but if he doesn’t then that’s okay, too.

It’s— it’s a little weird. It’s nothing like all the times dad fed mom, when she was lucky enough to eat from his hand and not a bowl on the floor, assuming she hadn’t lost bowl privileges.

It doesn’t feel degrading at all. He tentatively takes the berry between his teeth, not taking his eyes off Phil, if he’s going to hit Clint for doing this wrong Clint wants to see it coming. 

Phil lets him take it, not only lets him take it, but says, “Good boy,” when Clint begins chewing. He’s barely swallowed when there’s another berry at his lips and he takes this one just as carefully as before. 

Phil takes a cube of cheese next and Clint’s eyes are soft and a little fearful but Phil wants to show Clint he can trust Phil with this. 

That he can trust Phil. 

Clint makes a small sound of pleasure at the sharp taste of the cheese contrasting with the sweetness of the strawberries then flinches, waiting for a reprimand.

Phil slowly brushes his clean fingers through the fringe of Clint’s hair, saying quietly, “You’re okay, sweet boy,” then picking up another berry.

This time instead of holding it up to Clint’s lips he holds it a couple of inches away; Clint is glacier slow as he leans forward, eyes never leaving Phil’s as he gently takes the fruit, closing his eyes and trying to hide his whimper as the sweetness bursts across his tongue.

“More?” Phil says and Clint opens his eyes to see a bite of watermelon in front of him. 

He takes it into his mouth and sees a drop of juice slide down Phil’s finger, his tongue darts out and catches it and then his eyes dart to Phil’s face, but Phil doesn’t yell at him for being so sloppy, in fact his eyes are bright and he has a soft smile.

Clint tries a tentative smile back, then sighs and let’s his tension go, nuzzling into Phil’s chest and closing his eyes, not even noticing as he drifts into a light doze. 

Phil’s never seen Clint like this before. Even the small cat naps he takes on Phil’s office couch some part of him has still been alert. Up until last night Phil hadn’t been sure Clint ever really slept at all. 

Phil eats the second bite of watermelon himself, licking his fingers clean and trying not to think about the way Clint’s tongue felt against his skin, then decides to let himself nap as well.

~~~

“Hrk— Clint!”

Clint blinks the rest of the way awake and realizes his hand isn’t wrapped around an unknown attacker’s throat, that he knows the body pinned beneath him, that his drawn back fist is about to hit _Phil._

“Fuck!” Clint scrambles backwards tripping over the couch arm and on to the floor and scrambling to his feet, keeping the couch end between himself and Phil, guilt wracking him as Phil rubs his throat, “Jesus, fuck, Phil. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Phil says, but his voice is hoarse, “It’s fine. Everything’s okay.”

“Shit. Shit, I’m so sorry. I never should have— I know better than to— Fuck!”

He thought giving in for once, submitting like that, that he was only in danger of getting his heart broken. 

He never would have done it in a million years if he had known he was risking Phil’s life. 

Never again. 

He can never do that again. 

“It’s okay, Clint. It was an accident.”

“No— Phil, I could have _killed_ you. Do you understand that?”

“I’m not completely defenseless, Clint.”

“Phil, please, you’re good, but I’m me. I— If you’re sure you’re okay?” He waits for Phil’s nod, “I really need to work some of this adrenaline off. I’m going to go for a ride, maybe hit the range.”

“Clint,” Phil starts and Clint cuts him off, unable to deal with the rasp in his voice.

“Sorry, right. Give me permission.”

“Clint, I don’t think—”

“Phil. I’m walking out that door,” he escapes to the bedroom and grabs his bow case and the burner he used earlier. When he comes back out he sees Phil drop his hand from his throat with a guilty look.

“Give me permission or don’t. That’s your call, but I can’t stay here, not right now. Not after I—,” he cuts himself off and looks away from where Phil has his hand rubbing his throat again.

“We should talk,” Phil croaks.

“You’re in no shape to do any talking right now, Phil. Let me go. Give me a couple hours and, I promise, we can talk when I get back.”

“I—,” Phil starts to argue but his voice cracks and Clint flinches like Phil had reached out and slapped him. Phil nods, “Okay, but you keep your phone on you and you,” he coughs and Clint is torn between trying to comfort him and staying as far the fuck away as possible. When he’s recovered Phil says, “You come home when I tell you to.”

Clint closes his eyes in relief and nods before opening them again, “Okay. Okay, I promise. Sir.”

Phil coughs again and Clint asks, “You’re— you're sure you’re going to be okay, I don’t need to take you in to Medical?”

He’s practically vibrating out of his skin and if he doesn’t get out of here he’s going to scream but if Phil needs him, that comes first.

“Go,” Phil mouths and gestures to the door, then whispers, “I’ll be waiting.”

“I—,” Clint darts forward and grabs Phil’s hand, pressing his lips to Phil’s palm, “I’ll be back as soon as I can, I promise,” and then he’s gone. 

Phil collapses back into the couch and finally lets himself wheeze the way he wants to and gingerly pokes at his throat, hoping he didn’t just lie to Clint. It’s sore enough that he texts May, asking her to come over ASAP, but not telling her why.

He can never let Clint know how close he came to crushing Phil’s throat; it would destroy him. 

~~~

Clint heads up to a viewpoint he knows about, the vibrations of his motorcycle under his ass waking up his bruises and reminding him everything he’s running away from. 

At night the place is full of teenagers looking for someplace to experiment away from the watchful eyes of their parents; during the day like this it’s empty, and he heads into the small wooded area that surrounds it, marking an ‘X’ into one of the trees and then setting up as far away from it as he can. 

He isn’t up for facing SHIELD right now, not after what just happened. 

The phone is in his pocket waiting for Tash to reply to his text:

**Fucked up bad. Call me.**

He’s been gone a good hour when she finally calls. He grabs his arrows and swings up into the branches of the tree he’s been using for target practice.

“What did you do this time?”

“I almost killed Phil.”

“What? Why? What did he do? If he hurt you, Clint, I will tear his—”

“No! Tasha, wait. It’s not like that. I… I submitted to him, and…”

“He did hurt you, didn’t he? Clint, promise or no, I swear they will never find his body. Are you okay? Do you need me to come to DC? I’m in Istanbul but I can be there by morning.”

Clint smiles, “Finally going after Santa’s workshop?”

That distracts her and he can hear the satisfaction in her voice, “The Myraian scroll was right, there was a secret priest’s hole under the fountain.”

“And?”

She wouldn’t be this happy if she had come up blank.

“Come on Tash, you found something, didn’t you?”

“Three stone vials, carved out of the same marble as the sarcophagus, liquid intact; dating back to before he was moved from Gemile.”

“Jesus, Tash, those have to be worth a fortune.”

“I figure we sell one and keep one each for a rainy day. Speaking of, how’s the weather?”

“I’m fine, Tash, really, I am. I… I fell asleep on top of him and—”

“Oh, is that all. Clint, how many times did you almost kill me in your sleep those first few weeks?”

“That’s different, you would try to kill me back. I can’t— Tash, I can’t risk him. Not like this.”

“You said you submitted to him, why did he untie you, didn’t you warn him to wait for your okay?”

“I told you, I fu-tzed up.”

“Futzed? What’s going on with you? There’s something you’re not telling me.”

“I— God, Tasha, I’m so fucked.”

He tells her everything, because that’s what they do and in the end, she laughs at him just like he knew she would. 

Well, not just like; he had expected it to be mocking not sad, “Talk to him, _rodnoy,_ he will understand. And if he doesn’t—”

“I know, I know; they’ll never find the body. I love you, too, Bits.”

~~~

He stops by the barracks after all; avoiding everyone by sticking to the oversized vents that are a definite security hazard but are so useful that he hasn’t brought it to anyone’s attention. He checks his tripwires and feels a measure of ease knowing he’s still the only one using the vents.

Or if someone else has been here they’re better than Clint in which case they deserve to get the drop on him.

He grabs his emergency go bag and checks the extra protein bars, water bottles, burner, and knives to make sure nothing needs to be replaced, recharged, or upgraded, then leaves via a different route, which just happens to bring him by Hand and Garrett having a conversation in Interview 2.

“I’m warning you, John, underestimating him is a mistake. He isn’t a normal submissive and if you try your nonsense on him he will put you down. He’s dangerous.”

“Jesus, Vic, he’s still got you fooled. He’s a _submissive;_ he wants to be put in his place, that’s all any of them want. Besides he has his whole ‘no killing’ thing. We should have realized something was up when he showed his delicate sub sensibilities.”

“You’re a toad,” Hand says with disgust, “I’m going to enjoy watching him put _you_ in _your_ place.”

Hand leaves and he hears Garrett mutter, “We’ll just see about that.”

And if that isn’t a perfect cue, Clint doesn’t know what is. He lifts the ceiling grate and executes a perfect three point drop in front of Garrett.

“Fuck me!”

Clint stands, “I already told you, Garrett, I’m not gonna fuck you; but I do think it’s time you and I had a little heart to heart,” he pulls a knife and starts examining it for any flaws, “You see, there’s a lot of wiggle room between dead and alive. Hey, did you know I ran with the Black Widow for a while? You pick stuff up, you know?” He taps the flat of the blade against his cheek, the point right under his eye.

Garrett blanches.

“Now, we can have a conversation,” he points the knife back and forth between them, “Or you can agree to be a good boy from here on out and get to keep all your parts. What do you say?”

“You crazy bitch!”

“See, that sounds like you want to have a conversation,” he flips the knife, then throws it, skimming Garrett’s ear as he draws another knife.

“Fuck! Fine.”

“I want to hear you say it,” Clint smiles. 

Well, more bares his teeth, but it gets his point across.

“I’ll be a good boy,” Garrett snarls.

“Glad to hear it,” Clint says and turns towards the door, looking over his shoulder as Garrett pulls his knife from the wall. Clint holds his hand out for the knife, “Oh, and _Johnny boy_ , if I think you're about to step out of line, I’ll call in the Widow. She doesn’t share my ‘delicate sub sensibilities’.”

Garrett swallows and nods, handing over the knife. 

“Good boy.”

~~~

 _‘God_ _that felt good,’_ Clint thinks as he rides off into the— well, okay, it’s not a sunset, it’s just after noon.

Call it the metaphoric sunset. 

He’s trying to decide if he’s ready to go back to Phil’s when he sees a dog walker with four of the Best. Dogs. Ever. and he pulls over and asks if he can pet them. 

The sub holding their leashes makes them all sit but then tells Clint to “Go for it,” and when he encourages them she lets them climb all over him.

He takes a couple dozen pictures and thanks her for stopping for him. He waves as she turns the corner then starts to text the pictures to Phil. 

He pauses, not sure he’s ready to open a dialog yet. 

But he doesn’t want to lose this. Even if he and Phil can’t figure out their other sh-stuff, they should be able to keep this. 

~~~

“Phil, you can’t be serious. He almost killed you.”

“That’s an exaggeration,” Phil’s voice is mostly back, as long as he doesn’t push it you can’t even hear the rasp. May still wants him to go into Medical but other than some bruising and a sore throat he’s fine.

“You woke up with his hand around your throat! He’s dangerous.”

“You didn’t see his face, May; he was horrified. I knew he was resisting sleeping together; I should have pushed harder for answers.”

“Clint choking you isn’t your fault.”

“I pushed him into safewording—”

“Because he doesn’t know his own limits. You said it yourself.”

“It’s my job to keep him safe. I should have had us go through a checklist. I keep hitting these landmines because I let us get caught up in the moment.”

When Clint get’s home they’re going to have to have a real talk; Phil can’t let himself get distracted again. He can’t even bear to think about what it would have done to Clint if he had actually hurt Phil. 

“I know you think you can solve anything with the right form but I don’t think that’s going to cut it this time.”

“It’s going to be okay, May, I promise. I’ll put some safeguards into place; we won’t sleep together unless and until we can both be sure he won’t react violently when he wakes up.”

“Phil…”

“You should have _seen_ him, May— in his submission. It was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

“You are out of your mind.”

“I— maybe. You’re right, you know. I love him,” Phil shocks himself by admitting it but it feels right to finally say it out loud, to tell somebody, even if it can’t be Clint; Phil can’t put that burden on him, “I love him and I would do anything for him. He needs me.”

“Just because he needs someone to sign off on his missions—”

“ _Me_ , May. Me. He doesn’t just need a whiphand he needs _me.”_

“Maybe I was too hasty; I could take over—,” Phil starts to growl and then coughs as that taxes his throat, May holds up her hands, “Okay, fine. But promise me, he doesn’t submit again until you have this figured out.”

“I promise.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Character opinions on various kinks are not a commentary on kinks in general and no kinkshaming is intended.

Phil’s wondering if he should hold off on making lunch or if he should wait for Clint when he gets a stream of dog pictures from the submissive and Phil feels the tension he's been carrying in his back and shoulders begin to melt. 

He wants to ask Clint when he’s coming home, but he doesn’t want to push. Finally he decides on:

**They’re adorable. Does the Yorkie remind you of anyone?**

Oh, God, Phil is right, it totally looks like Sitwell. Well, not looks, exactly. 

Clint leans against the wall under the shop awning.

**Stw?**

**Got it in one. Do you think it’s the shaved head?**

**Nah, it’s the tide. Stw = ttl sm 🐶 ergz.**

Tide. Tide? ‘Tude. Attitude. Clint’s right, Sitwell does kind of have small dog energy.

**Would it kill you to buy a vowel?**

Clint laughs for the first time in what feels like forever.

**U 💘 it.**

**Keep telling yourself that, brat.**

Phil freezes, worries he’s gone too far, and sighs in relief when Clint texts back. 

Clint’s breath catches, there it is again. ‘Brat’ but… there’s something almost affectionate about it. He tries not to let it slip him up and sends his traditional response when Phil bitc— complains about Clint’s texting.

😜

Phil wrestles with himself and gives in:

**I’m thinking about making something with pasta for lunch, should I make enough for both of us? No pressure.**

Shit. 

Shoot. 

Well, he had already been debating heading back. And he trusts Phil. If he’s saying no pressure he means it. 

Or at least Phil thinks he means it. 

**Snds gr8. 30?**

**Okay, see you soon.**

~~~

Clint makes a slight detour to the roof of Phil’s building and finds a place to tuck away the go bag, then swings back down to the street and comes in through the front door. 

He hangs his helmet on the coat stand, “Smells great!” After a moment's hesitation, he removes his boots and socks, too.

“Mr. Lyndsey’s homemade mac and cheese,” Phil says from the couch, pausing his show as Clint comes in. Even after his text Phil had been worried that Clint might change his mind. 

“Mr. Lyndsey?” 

Phil still isn’t wearing shoes, so Clint skips the cloth like he had this morning. 

“Our cook when I was growing up.”

Clint comes around the couch and swallows. The last time he knelt here for Phil he made a promise he couldn’t keep, offering his complete submission to Phil.

He can’t lose himself this time.

He’s always said he was free to submit or free to do what he wanted, he never thought that they would be one in the same but it should be no surprise that now that they are he still can’t allow himself to submit the way he wants to. 

The next time he submits for Phil he’s going to insist on being bound first, for Phil’s own safety. 

Oh, God. 

Those are his finger prints around Phil’s throat.

Maybe submitting at all is a bad idea if this is what happens when his defenses are down. 

Clint hovers over Phil with a guilty look on his face for long enough that he prompts, “Clint?”

Clint collapses to his knees and presses his cheek to the top of Phil’s foot, all his normal grace missing. He wraps his arms around Phil’s leg and says, “I’m so sorry, Sir, I never should have let myself fall asleep like that. I never wanted to hurt you, Phil. I… if you don’t want to be my whiphand anymore…” Clint shudders and whispers, “I understand, Sir.”

“Oh, honey,” Phil says, petting Clint’s head, his heart breaking, “It was an accident. I should have dug deeper into why you didn’t want to sleep with me instead of just assuming it was some stubborn need to keep control.”

Clint pulls back and stares at Phil in disbelief, “For fuck’s sa—,” he cuts himself off remembering his promise to try not to swear, “You can’t seriously be blaming yourself because _I_ almost killed _you?_ This is on me, Phil.”

“Let’s say we both made mistakes?”

“I— hrmph,” Clint stops arguing, knowing that pushing at this point won’t get him anywhere, “So where do we go from here?”

“From here, we sit at the table and go over a limits checklist and we’re going to see if we can find any other landmines before we step on them.”

“Paperwork?” Clint raises an eyebrow and no one should look so condescendingly superior when on their knees but Clint manages to pull it off. 

“Table,” Phil points.

With a theatrically deep sigh Clint gets to his feet and obeys with an exasperated, “Paperwork,” under his breath. 

Phill will take it. 

Clint sits down gingerly as Phil takes out his tablet, pulling up the spreadsheet.

“We’ll start at the top,” Phil says, ignoring Clint’s groan, “Anything besides your name that you’d like to be called? Or definitely don’t want to be called?”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Clint rolls his eyes but then catches sight of the bruises around Phil’s throat and sobers. If Phil thinks this will prevent something like that from happening again then a little boredom isn’t too much to ask.

“I guess I kind of like it when you call me ‘honey’,” he blushes, “Other things like that are fine.”

Phil makes a note, “You react pretty strongly to be called a ‘good boy’ as well. Talk to me about that.”

Clint swallows and looks away, “So. Jumping right into it, I see,” he looks up hopefully, “I don’t suppose you could just give me the checklist and let me fill it out on my own?”

“Clint.”

“Yeah, okay. I like it when— look we both know it’s not true, but yeah, I like it. I shouldn’t but I do.”

“Clint,” Phil reaches out and covers one of Clint’s clenched fists with his hand, “You want to be a good boy and that’s all it takes. Now, I want to hear you say it, and remember your honorifics.”

“I— fuck— futz! Sorry, Sir. But see? We both know I’m hopeless at this sh-stuff.”

“Clint,” Phil says, using his lower register even though it causes a flare of pain that he can’t let Clint see or risk everything falling apart.

Clint winces, “Yes, Sir, I want,” he whispers a quiet, _“Fuck,”_ under his breath, “I want to— to be a — Phil, please?”

“Say it, but only say it if you mean it.”

“I kind of hate you right now,” Clint sulks.

“If you don’t actually want to be good then I don’t know why I’m even trying. Clint, if you want this to work—”

Jesus fuck, this is fucking killing him; he gets it out in a rush, “I want to be a good boy,” God, he feel’s like he’s going to be sick, or cry, or maybe cling to Phil and beg and he hates this, why is he doing this to himself? Then he looks at his bruises on Phil’s throat and thinks of everything Phil’s doing for him, everything he’s sacrificing and says, “I want to be your good boy, Sir.”

Phil hadn’t realized how much he had needed to hear Clint say it and he almost shivers with relief, “Good, Clint, that’s very good. I’m proud of you.”

Clint refuses to look at him and Phil says, “Tell me how that made you feel.”

“What, are you looking to transfer to Psych or something?”

“I’m serious. Be honest. You owe me that, at least. And don’t make me remind you again about using ‘Sir’.”

Fuck, Phil’s right, “I’m sorry, Sir. I— It’s… It’s good? But it also kind of hurts. I want it, but I hate that I want it. I— please, Sir, don’t make me do this.”

“Okay, Clint. Okay. That’s enough for now. What about things you don’t want to be called?”

Clint shrugs, “You can call me whatever you want.”

“Are you sure? We don’t want any surprises. I don’t want to set you off if we’re in the middle of a scene and I call you my sweet slut.”

“Oh,” Clint gasps his cock filling at the thought, “That’s… that would be okay.”

Phil smirks and makes a note, “I want you to think hard about whether or not there’s anything you don’t like.”

“I don’t— I— it kind of gets me off, being called names I don’t like. Like if you were to call me a lazy whore right now I’d probably punch you,” he looks at Phil's throat again, “Or, at least want to. But if I’m tied up and can’t move and you’re fucking my throat and I can’t do anything but take it, that might make me cum.”

The mental image of Clint, bound for his pleasure, his for Phil to use however he sees fit, quickly has Phil’s cock pressing up against the buttons of his jeans. He can’t ever imagine calling Clint lazy under any circumstance but if more derogatory terms get him off, that’s something to keep in mind. 

Phil makes another note, “Okay, we can move on, but if you think of anything we can always come back to it. I assume it's safe to say you're a masochist?”

Clint’s smile is full of teeth as he says, “Bring it,” remembering at the last moment to add, “Sir,” and Phil finds out that he hadn’t been as hard as he had thought as his jeans become even tighter.

“Good,” Phil says with a matching smile. At least they have some common ground. And what delicious ground it is, “Do you know what your pain tolerance is?”

“I haven’t found the limit yet. Maybe we can find it together. _Sir.”_

Phil moans and is saved from comment by the timer going off, “Okay, let me get this out of the oven and we can get started on the checklist portion.”

“Wait, we haven't even _started?!”_

“Not with the checklist itself,” Phil sets the casserole dish up on the stove and gets out some plates while it cools, “We were just covering the basics. There’s a section for injuries and the like, but I'm probably more familiar with your medical and psych files than you are.”

Clint’s silence holds something that has the hair on the back of Phil’s neck standing up, “Clint?”

“What?”

“Sir?”

“What, Sir?”

“What aren't you telling me?”

“I, uh… I may not have been completely forthright with Psych? Sir.”

Phil’s face shows exactly how shocked he’s not, “Go on.”

“It’s just… I've been thinking about it a lot lately. Or… about her. My mom. You know my dad was a right bastard but I— the way he treated her… I'm starting to think that isn't how submissives should expect to be treated. So… Landmines. But I don't really know what’s normal and what was… him. I know he’s one of the reasons I feel like I have to run. If I lost my temper around him, she bore the brunt of it… I put her in the hospital a couple times before I learned to run away, and now… anytime it seems like things are going to get too violent… I never want to hurt anyone the way he hurt her and, well, look at me. Hell, look at you. If I were ever to do something like you on purpose— I just. Phil, you can’t ask me to stay when I get like that, you just can’t.”

“You were eight when she died, Clint; nothing he did to her was your fault.”

“You weren’t there. You don’t know. You— He wasn’t the only one who hurt her.”

“Oh, honey,” Phil comes over next to Clint, “I’d like to hug you, if that’s okay?”

“Are you out of your fucking mind!?” Clint shouts, jumping out of the chair and backing away from Phil, “I just told you I put my mom in the hospital and you want to hug me? Phil, I almost put _you_ in the hospital. You have to be willing to give me my space when I need it or this just isn’t going to work, no matter how much either of us may want it to.”

“You weren’t responsible for what happened to your mother. You were a child. And you choked me on accident; I trust you, you never would attack me if you hadn’t been asleep.”

“You don't know that!” Clint yells then tries to get his temper under control while he still can, taking a deep breath and continuing, “There are reasons I have the rules I do and they aren’t all for my protection. I’m dangerous. You know it and I know it and if you don’t start acting like it you’re going to get yourself killed, and that is unacceptable.”

“That’s the very reason I know you’re safe to be around now. Let me trust you enough for the both of us.”

“If I’m wrong and you're right then all it’s cost us is me being in the wind for a couple hours. If I’m right and you’re wrong,” Clint’s eyes are drawn inexorably back to Phil’s throat.

Phil sighs, “Okay. For now we do things your way. If you ever feel like you need time to decompress, you can take it but if I find out you’re taking advantage—”

“I won’t,” Clint feels relief swamp him and he half falls half sits back in his chair with a wince as his ass connects, “I promise.”

Phil reaches out slowly until his hand is resting on Clint’s shoulder and when Clint allows it Phil squeezes it gently. It isn’t the hug Phil wants to give but it’s far more than Clint was willing to accept before. 

Phil let’s Clint finish settling while he dishes up lunch, serving Clint and then sitting next to him.

“Thanks,” Clint says with a smile, then realizing he’s forgotten it, again, growls, _“Sir.”_

Knowing more about how Clint must have grown up, Phil resolves to give him a little more slack, “It’s okay, honey, it will come with time. Instead of punishing you for forgetting, what if I reward you for getting it right?”

“You’d do that? Sir?”

“Of course. What’s something you’d like? Something for remembering for, let’s say while we work on the checklist?”

Clint knows immediately the one then he wants most from Phil, “A kiss, Sir? A real one. If that’s okay?” 

Phil still hasn’t kissed him and Clint bites his lip, afraid he's asked for too much. 

“Of course that's okay, sweetheart,” Phil hadn’t realized it until now but with all they’ve done so far, they haven’t kissed yet. Phil realizes he’s been waiting for the perfect moment, for an opportunity like this and he has even more incentive to get them through the checklist as quickly and smoothly as possible. 

“Oh,” Clint says, a little shocked it came that easy. Maybe he should have pushed for more, “Thank you, Sir.”

He still gets that warm tingly feeling when he calls Phil, ‘Sir’ and it seems to calm him more than Phil’s acceptance of his need to run, or the comfort food Phil’s made.

“Oh, fu-tz, this is delicious, Sir. Thanks for not making me cook,” Clint says.

Remembering the smell of burnt eggs this morning, Phil says, “Clint, you set the barrack’s kitchen on fire boiling water, I’m not letting you loose in my kitchen.”

“In my defense, I was left unsupervised,” remembering at the last second to add, “Sir.”

Phil laughs softly, ignoring the pain in his throat, “If you want, I could supervise you some time?”

“I… I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Sir. Anything… anything too domestic is probably courting disaster, one way or another.”

“But you _are_ okay with the formal Greeting?”

“Yeah, that’s fine, Sir. But cooking for you, cleaning, that sort of sh-stuff; anything too domestic,” Clint shrugs, taking another bite, “Anything he used to make her do.”

Phil hums and makes a few notes in his spreadsheet, “That shouldn’t be a problem; I enjoy cooking and we’ll probably order in or eat at the cafeteria most of the time anyway. I have a SHIELD cleaning crew come through regularly so that’s not something I expect you to take care of.”

Clint knows it will be the same people that work at HQ, in addition to normal cleaning they sweep for listening devices and are under the same type of security contract as all of SHIELD’s other employees, including Clint. Probably up to and including Director Fury. 

“So, what’s first on the list,” Clint says, really digging into lunch, “Sir.”

“For each of these let me know your level of experience: none, beginner, intermediate, or advanced, and then a number from zero to five. Zero means it’s a hard limit, one is a soft limit, two for something you hate that’s not a limit, three is something you can take or leave but you're willing to try for me, four is something you know you like or want to try with me and five is something you desperately want. Don’t feel locked into a rating, we can always reevaluate as we go. 

“Sounds easy enough, Sir.”

Phil loves hearing his honorific come so naturally from his submissive, the way it pulls at something deep inside Phil, the way it makes him feel complete, like a piece he didn’t even know he was missing has come back to him, “Then let’s begin. We’ll start with sex.”

“I don’t suppose that means you want to start by fucking me over the table, Sir?” 

“Nobody is fucking anybody until we get through this,” holy shit Phil just said ‘fuck’, not only said it, but implied that he might be willing to fuck Clint as soon as they’re through the list and if that isn’t incentive Clint doesn’t know what is, “Now, how experienced are you with anal sex?”

“Expert—”

“Clint.”

Clint rolls his eyes, “Seriously? Advanced, and five, Sir.”

Phil makes a note, “Giving and receiving?”

“And r— you do that?! I mean would let me— really, Sir?” Clint’s eyes are as big as dinner plates and he licks his lips as he looks at Phil like a starving man in front of a full course meal.

Phil smiles, “So you wouldn’t object to me tying you down and riding you until I’ve had my fill?”

Clint moans a little, “Yes, please— I mean, no, Sir, I wouldn’t object.”

“Oral?”

“Advanced, six, Sir.”

“Clint.”

“Okay, fine. Five. You know I could show you right now—”

“Behave. Giving and receiving?”

“Yes, please, Sir.”

“Hand jobs?”

Clint reaches down to press on his erection with his free hand before remembering himself and grabbing the edge of the table, “You're killing me, Sir. Tell me this isn’t some sort of torture specifically to get me to cum untouched?”

Now there’s an idea. Phil wonders if he could do it, get Clint to cum just from dirty talk and he makes a note on the spreadsheet to try it sometime. 

“If you cum without permission the cage is going back on and so help me I will make you sleep in it.”

“Oh, God, no. Please, Sir, I’ll be good.”

“Do you need it now?”

Clint shakes his head ‘no’ almost violently, “No, Sir. I promise.”

“Handjobs?” Phil prompts. 

“Advanced, five, Sir. Giving and receiving.”

“Fingering?”

“Advanced, five, Sir. Receiving, at least. I don’t have much experience giving but I’d like to, if you’ll let me.”

“I think that can be arranged. Fisting.”

Clint shakes his head, “I’ve never— none, and I don’t— one, Sir? Giv— really?”

“It takes a lot of trust, but yes, I’ve been fisted by one of my submissives before. It’s very intimate and something you work up to slowly.”

“Oh,” Clint says softly, “I… maybe a four for giving, Sir?”

Phil notes next to the one for receiving that it's a soft limit that he wants to see about pushing down the line. It will be a better experience for them both if Clint has first hand knowledge of what it feels like before fisting Phil. 

“Double penetration?”

“You’d share me, Sir?” Clint says with dismay. He knows this is only temporary but he had hoped that as long as he’s Phil’s he would just be Phil’s.

“No,” Phil says coldly, “You’re mine,” he corrects himself, “For now. Once we start looking for your real whiphand— I don’t think I could share you, not like that, but I can’t expect you to be monogamous and look for a whiphand.”

“Oh,” Clint whispers, “Okay. Sir.”

There’s a pause and they both eat silently until Clint feels like he has his bearings again. 

“So, how would double penetration work?”

“Well, I could fuck you open with a toy while you suck my cock, or have you suck on a dildo while I fuck you,” God, fuck sounds so dirty coming from Phil’s mouth and Clint squirms in his chair, not that that helps with his erection problem, the dual fronts of Phil swearing and feeling his bruises threatens to undo Clint where he sits, “If you wanted double penetration in one hole, or even triple penetration where we keep your mouth occupied with a dildo and try to fit my cock and a dildo in your ass, or have you suck me while I work two dildos—”

“Stop! Please. Please stop, Sir? Give me a second?”

Phil smiles, “So that’s a yes? Give me a number sweetheart.”

“Umm, I don’t know, I’ve never— I mean, I’ve been with more than one dom at a time before— well once, but— I think, like that, with you and some toys, I might want to try?”

Phil marks it as a four with notes on Clint’s reaction to the discussion then moves on, “Kissing?”

“Advanced. Five, Sir. Please.”

“Licking?”

“Isn’t that kind of the same as kissing?” At Phil’s look, “Advanced. Giving and receiving. Four.”

“Rimming?” Phil does his best to keep the hope off his face and out of his voice. As long as it isn’t a hard limit Phil will still indulge himself on occasion, he’s only human, but it will be so much better if Clint is into it, too.

“Eh. I had a guy sit on my face once but I think that was more about getting me to shut up more than anything. So, close to none, but I’m willing to try it again. And… three—,” then he thinks about it in context of Phil, “Or four. Four, Sir. At least once.”

“Giving or receiving?” 

Clint’s shocked again and lets out a strangled, “Both? Sir.”

 _Fuck_ the thought of Phil, straightlaced picture perfect Phil eating his ass, “I—,” he looks down and blushes, feeling selfish as he says, “Five for receiving, Sir. If— is that okay?”

“Sweetheart, anything you rate these is fine as long as you're honest. It doesn’t mean we’ll never do something that’s a one, if I feel like your limits need to be pushed, or that you’ll necessarily get something you rate a five, but all information is good information.”

“I— okay. Five for receiving, Sir. At least once. Maybe we try it and it’s too much or I don’t like it, but… yeah. Five, Sir.”

“Anal plugs, both at home and in public?”

“I’ve never— and in pub—?! I can’t— you,” Clint shakes his head.

“Let’s break it down, how do you feel about me keeping you plugged at home?”

“I… I don’t know, maybe? Sir. Um, four, but I might, it might not be a good idea.”

“Why is that?”

“I— I’m not sure. It’s like with keeping my mouth open, something that feels like it’s meant to… to ‘put me in my place’,” he shakes head, “Like I said, I maybe want to try it but it could go south quickly.”

Phil notes private use of anal plugs as a potential landmine as well as extra notes in Clint’s look of revulsion as he said _’put me in my place’,_ “And in public?”

“Zero— no. Maybe one?” 

Phil marks public as a one with notes about slowly pushing Clint’s limit if private play works out. 

“Teasing?”

Clint’s an expert in provoking a reaction, in fact it’s been his go to for getting what he wants for years, and having been in the receiving end he’d like to see more from Phil, “Advanced. Four, maybe five when I’m teasing you?” Clint’s, “Sir,” is tacked on to the end, but Phil doesn’t seem to mind. 

“Massage?”

“I’ve never been with anyone besides Tasha that I’ve been that I’ve really been able to enjoy them with and she’s like a sister to me.”

“Tasha? Why don’t we know about her?”

“Shit-shoot. I shouldn’t have— she’s really private, Sir. She’ll kill me if she finds out I told you about her. Well, no. Not me, Sir. But she would kill you. I’m serious. You can’t tell anyone about her. I can’t— If she kills you, I couldn’t— just, please, Sir, forget I said anything?”

Clint’s the most scared Phil’s ever seen him, leaning over his empty plate and staring into Phil’s eyes and knowing the company Clint used to keep, he believes Clint when he says his ‘sister’ might kill Phil to keep her identity unknown and he starts running a risk analysis in the back of his mind on whether to try and find out who she is on his own.

“Alright but, Clint, you can tell me anything. You know that right?”

“It’s for your own safety, Sir,” Clint says with a wry quirk of his lip, “I might— I'll start warming her up to the idea about telling you about her but in the meantime I know you and I’m serious, if you try to figure out who she is she will find out and we can’t let that happen. Promise me, Phil. If you don’t take this seriously then I’m not sure I can protect you.”

“Okay, Clint. Okay. I’ll let you take lead on this and I promise I won’t do any digging without talking to you first.”

“Well, damn, nothing like fearing for your life to kill a boner. I’ll have to remember that. Sir.”

“How do you feel about giving or receiving a massage with me, sexual or otherwise?”

Clint takes a breath, really considering it, the thought of being able to touch Phil head to toe, to draw out moans of pleasure, maybe teasing him to the point that he snaps and grabs Clint— and yeah, that’s something he wants to try, “Five giving, Sir. A three for recieving,” he would have to be on constant guard not to relax too much but, “Maybe a four if you tie me up first.” 

“Hair petting?”

“I don’t— no one’s ever— you’re the only one who’s— I think I liked it, Sir? But… I don’t know if it’s safe for me to get too comfortable.”

“Give me a number, Clint.”

“Four, I guess? But we have to be careful.”

“Cum marking?”

“Fuc-tz. About that boner problem?” Clint chuckles softly, “Umm, yeah, advanced, receiving, at least, Sir. I’d like to, um, try giving? And a five for you marking me.”

“And cum swallowing?”

“Oh, God. Same? Sir.”

“Spitting on your body?” Phil keeps his tone as neutral as possible, he can’t imagine ever spitting on Clint, even if Clint rates it a five, but he meant it when he told him all information is good information; a thought he almost immediately regrets when he finds out how much experience Clint has.

“Ugh, intermediate, but, two, Sir? I really hate it, but if—”

“No. No, that’s not something I’ll ever do.”

“Well… actually— no, never mind, Sir.”

“Tell me.”

“If you aren’t spitting on me spitting on me but like, spitting to make me slick, like my cock for a hand job or,” Clint looks away blushing and grips the table, “If… if you were to spit on my asshole before fucking me, Sir, that... that might be kind of hot?”

Phil makes a considering hum as he makes some notes. Clint’s right, in the right context that could be kind of hot.

“And spitting in your mouth?”

Clint shudders and says in a disgusted tone, “Intermediate, zero. Or. I guess if it’s you, Sir, two?”

As much as Phil is repulsed by the thought of spitting in Clint’s mouth, the fact that it’s a hard limit with everyone else but something Clint would do for Phil even though Clint hates it causes a possessive thrill run through him.

“Okay the last one is about multiple partners and I think we’ve already covered that. On to bondage.”

“Nice! Advanced five, please, Sir.”

Phil laughs, “It breaks down a little further than that. Full body?”

“Advanced, five, Sir.”

“Mental?”

“Mental?”

“Keeping your wrists crossed at your back when holding one of the Thirteen Positions— or like the gold chains, they were more mental than anything.”

“Oh. I don’t. You’re the only one. I— I don’t like it, Sir, but…”

“But?”

“I don’t know. It’s weird, Sir. I hated it but I… I felt kind of proud for not breaking them? Like… I don’t know. Some part of me liked doing it for you even though I hated it. Not breaking those chains was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.”

“Thank you for being so honest, Clint.”

Clint gives an embarrassed shrug, “It’s like you said, Sir. The more information you have, the better.”

“Any issues with materials, leather, metal, rope? Any preferences?”

“Nah, I like it all, Sir.”

“Have you ever had anyone try shibari with you?”

“What’s that, Sir?”

“Intricate knot work, playing with the beauty of the ropes against your skin. It’s bondage and art wrapped together, wrapping you up.”

Clint moans, “Oh, can we, Sir?”

“You have to sit still for me for long periods of time, but if you think you’re up for it, yes, I’d like that.” 

Sooner rather than later if Phil has his way. 

“Oh, thank you, Sir,” Clint’s never had someone tie him up like that and it sounds _wonderful._

“How about suspension?”

“I haven’t really tried it, I had a dom tie me up and hang me on the wall once but that—,” Clint shakes off the unpleasant memory, “I’m pretty sure it would be different with you? So maybe a four, Sir?”

“And cock bondage?”

“That could be fun, Sir; is it what it sounds like?”

“Cock rings, the gates of hell, or less traditional methods,” Phil says with a wicked smile. 

Clint licks his lips, he doesn’t have much experience with cock rings, most of his encounters have been too… frenetic for it to even come up, but the few times he has had one were either amazing or horrible or both, “Beginner and, um, five?”

“Five? Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” Clint nods, and says it firmly, “Yeah, five.”

“Okay,” Phil makes some notes before moving on, “What about predicament bondage?”

“What’s that, Sir?”

God, he’s so innocent in some ways that Phil can hardly wait to defile him, “Well, the chains earlier were a kind of predicament bondage. Another example would be tying you up in a difficult to hold position, maybe something like having you straddle the sawhorse and tying you so that you have to keep on your toes to avoid crushing your cock and balls.”

“Um,” Clint’s grip on the edge of the table has gone white knuckled, “Yeah, yeah, we can maybe try that sometime. Sir.”

Phil chuckles darkly, then cuts it off abruptly as he’s reminded of his damaged throat. 

“Gags?”

“Eh, I’ve been gagged plenty of times. I can take it or leave it, Sir. Except… maybe not the ring gag? People are usually trying to get me to shut my mouth, not open it.”

“Okay, we’ll get into specific types of gags when we get to the gear section.”

“Jesus, how long is this thing, Sir?”

“We’re almost done with the second section, which is a little shorter than the rest, there are eight sections total.”

Clint thunks his head on the table, “Ugh, Seriously? Sir.”

“We can finish up this section and take a break, but the longer you delay, the longer you have to wait for your kiss.”

Clint groans, “Fine, Sir. But this better be some kiss. Let me catch the dishes while we finish this up and then maybe we can sit on, or I guess in my case, _by_ the couch.”

“So you don’t mind doing the dishes now?”

“This is different, Sir. You cooked and I’m cleaning, but it’s not like I’m cleaning _for_ you or because I’m supposed to because I’m a submissive. We can split some chores and I don’t mind doing the dishes when you cook, I would have done it before,” he gestures between them, “All this; so, if it’s like being a polite roommate that’s fine, but I’m not scrubbing the bathroom with my toothbrush.”

“Okay, I promise I won’t punish you by making you scrub the bathroom with a toothbrush.”

“Oh! It might not be as bad if it’s not _my_ toothbrush. Sir.”

“Jesus, honey,” Phil feels nauseous and spares a thought to cursing Harold Barton’s ghost, “No, I’m never going to make you use your toothbrush for anything other than brushing your teeth.”

Clint’s silent as he rinses their plates and puts away the leftovers.

“Two more under bondage and then we can move on to sadism and masochism.”

“Ooh!” Clint perks up.

“The first is sensory deprivation, which mostly boils down to blindfolds and earplugs, or, in your case, taking out your hearing aids.”

Clint goes suddenly silent again but instead of continuing to wipe down the stove he’s standing there frozen.

“Clint?”

“I've never… I don't know if I could ever trust someone that much, Sir… Maybe with you? I’m… Honestly the thought is terrifying, but if I’m going to do it with anyone, it would be you, Sir.”

Phil feels a warmth settle in his chest, “Thank you, Clint,” he marks it as a soft limit to possibly be pushed, “And lastly, chastity devices?”

“Never before today and I hated it. Sir.”

“Give me a number.”

Clint debates saying one, or maybe zero, but that wouldn’t be honest. He hates it but it isn’t a limit; even so he knows he sounds sullen when he says, ‘Two, Sir.”

“I’ll save it for punishments then. Or if I’m feeling particularly cruel. I enjoyed telling you all the things I want to do to you, knowing how it made you feel, knowing you were both turned on and in pain. I even like that you hate it. In fact, I want you to go and bring it out to the couch now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clint’s emoji’s are a dog, then a heart with an arrow emoji, then a winking tongue out face.


	19. Chapter 19

“Oh, no, Sir. Please no? I’m being good, you said so.”

“Go,” he says in his deeper register, even though it hurts, “For now I’ll let you hold it while we go over the list, but then, I may change my mind.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Clint sulks all the way to the toy cabinet and back to the couch. He sits in a cross legged slump on the cushion by Phil’s feet, fiddling with the cage until his ass reminds him to Sit properly. He rests the cage on his knee and glares at it.

“Good boy,” Phil rubs his fingers through Clint’s hair.

Oh, fuck him, that _voice_.

“You’re the worst, Sir,” Clint says with a sigh, leaning into Phil’s leg.

“I have my moments,” Phil says then clears his throat, wincing a little; it’s slowly getting better, and the soreness will probably be gone before the bruises, but it’s a good reminder of why going through the checklist in detail is necessary, “First up is spanking, but we know how you feel about that, don’t we?”

“Are you sure we can’t put it down as a six, Sir.”

Phil grabs Clint’s hair and shakes him a little and Clint moans out a, “Five, it’s a five, Sir,” and Phil lets him go, smiling at Clint’s small sound of loss.

“Face slapping?”

“Advanced, 3, I don’t hate it, Sir, but it’s not my favorite. Except…” he shrugs, “Sometimes when I get really down into subspace I kind of love to hate it, Sir. Kind of like with name calling. Or, I don’t know, maybe it’s just what I’m used to. Now, slapping me with your dick on the other hand,” Clint raises and lowers his eyebrows a couple times, “That’s another story.”

Phil chuckles, “Noted. Biting?”

“Advanced, four; as long as you’re not breaking my skin. And… and I like to bite to, if that’s okay, Sir? I— sometimes if it’s a really intense scene I might bite regardless.”

“Hmmm,” Phil’s ever had a sub who bites before, but he can see the possibilities.

“‘Hmmm’, Sir?”

Phil smiles, “You’ll see,” as he winds plans within plans. Definitely possibilities, “Nipple torture?”

Clint’s fingers tighten on the cage he’s balancing on his knee and he nods frantically.

“Words, Clint.”

“Advanced, 5, please, Sir.”

“Cock and ball torture?”

“Are you absolutely sure about that six, Sir,” before Phil can chastise him Clint says, “Five. Advanced and five, Sir. I… I was wondering if maybe we could try that sawhorse thing, Sir? Soon?”

Phil’s smile becomes sharp edged, “If you can behave yourself I’ll consider it. Punching?” He asks, already knowing he won’t like the answer, “I know I’ve already said I wouldn’t punch you as a punishment, but is that something you would want as part of a scene?”

“No, Sir. I really don’t like it but,” Clint shrugs, “There are worse things. So, advanced three?”

“How do you feel about bruises?”

“The more the merrier? Sir,” at Phil’s look he says, “Advanced, five.”

“Scratching?”

“Maybe intermediate, Sir? But I like it when it isn’t breaking the skin. Four.”

“Hair pulling?” Phil says, matching deed to words as he tugs sharply on Clint’s hair.

Clint gasps, “Five. Advanced five, Sir.”

Phil lets go, “Pinching?”

“Eh. Beginner maybe? I haven’t had many people pinch me,” he laughs, “Except maybe my brother when we were kids. I don’t know. Three?”

Phil swallows and debates skipping the next one and maybe coming back for it, but in the end his meticulous nature won’t let him skip it, “Choking,” Clint’s eyes flick to Phil’s throat as he expected, “For fun, Clint. For fun.”

“I’ve been choked out a couple times, I’m not sure I would call it ‘fun’. Sir.”

“It can be in the right circumstances, but with your history it’s probably even more dangerous for us to consider. How about fire play?”

Clint’s fingers dig into Phil’s leg, “Please don’t burn me, Sir.”

“I won’t,” he marks it as a zero, and skips asking what, if any experience Clint has with it, not wanting to know and not wanting to dredge up anymore unpleasant memories than necessary, “Piercing?”

Clint shrugs, “None but I’m not a fan of needles. One, Sir?”

It’s not anything Phil has ever had any interest in either, it or the next one, “Knife Play?”

“Knife play?” Clint shivers, “Intermediate and three, Sir.”

“Three? You’re sure? That didn’t seem like a three reaction.”

“It’s fine, Sir. Before,” Clint points his right finger into his chest just below his right collarbone and then points it into his chest just below his left collarbone «us», “Sometimes… All the time, I couldn’t— I was never able to submit willingly. Some doms it was easier with a knife at my throat but I don’t particularly like it or hate it.”

“Electricity?”

“None, and I guess three, Sir? Or… I don’t know, electricity can cause burn marks can’t it? Maybe zero would be better.”

Phil marks it as a zero alone with the small circled ‘L’ he’s using for potential landmines, “Temperature play.”

Clint frowns, “I didn’t really like it as part of my punishment, Sir, but it isn’t a limit. I’ve heard it can be kind of fun, so maybe four for pleasure and a two as punishment?”

“Hot wax?”

Clint shakes his head again, “I think it would be too much like being burned but I’ve never tried it. If— I trust you, Sir, but it’s still a limit. One.”

“Tickling?”

“Tickling? Seriously? Did you seriously just say tickling? And that’s under sadism? Where did you get this list, Ph— Sir?”

Phil sighs and rubs his forehead, “Just answer the question, Clint. Please.”

“Other than when I was a kid, none, Sir, and,” he shrugs, “Three?”

“Wrestling?”

“Advanced, Sir. I used to think it was the only way I could submit but it’s different with you. I’d still like though. Five, Sir.”

“Humiliation in private?”

“No! No, Sir… Except, you know how I told you sometimes I like being called names or getting slapped? I… nothing about what a shi— bad sub I am or anything about being submissive. I don’t know what to rate that.”

“That’s okay, that’s enough for me to go on, and we know that any kind of humiliation in public is a zero.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Phil skips over branding and cell popping, since they're just different forms of burning, and injections because Clint’s already said he doesn’t like needles, marking all three as assumed zeros; this is just an initial pass and they can come back to those down the road if they come up.

“Scarring?”

“I think I’ve already got enough scars, don’t you, Sir?” At Phil’s raised eyebrow he answers, “Most of them aren’t from scening and the ones that are that wasn’t the intent. So, either none or advanced depending on how you look at it, Sir, and three.”

“Is tattooing a one as well?”

“Yeah, sorry, Sir.”

“Don’t be sorry, honey, all I care about right now is that you're honest. What about enemas?”

Clint wrinkles his nose, “None, one, Sir.”

“Gagging on fingers or objects, or during oral sex?”

“I absolutely want to choke on your cock, Sir. That’s a five, and, Uh, advanced, I’m not sure about the rest, maybe a four? I don’t suppose you’d let me choke on your cock right now, Sir?”

“Give me the cage, Clint.”

Clint makes a small sound of dismay but Clint holds it up.

“Do it properly,” Phil says, with just enough bite to make Clint wince.

Clint shifts over to his knees and is about to Offer up the cage when he remembers to kiss it first, the act forcing a short whimper out of him. Phil has him hold the position for nearly twenty seconds, until Clint’s trembling not from effort but something closer to dread than anticipation. 

“Good boy, you can Sit back down now,” Phil says without taking the cage from him, “We’re through the sadism section—”

“That certainly felt sadistic, Sir,” at Phil’s pointed look Clint lowers his eyes, “Sorry, Sir. You were saying?”

“The next section is acts of submission, starting with begging.”

“Advanced, five, Sir, but, um, I kind of like being forced to do it, too.”

Next is housework which Phil marks as a zero with extra notes based on his and Clint’s conversations.

“The Classical Positions?”

“None before you, Sir, but I like them. I'd rate them a four on average. Some I like better than others. I might have tried practicing all the variations. 

“All of them?” Phil says with a note of possession curving through the words. 

Clint can’t meet his eye, staring down at the cage instead and nodding.

“That was a question, Clint.”

“Yes, Sir. All… all of the variations.”

“Which is your favorite?”

“I like Inspection, Sir, and,” Clint snaps his mouth shut and knows he’s betrayed himself.

_He warms up some lube between his fingers and then gathers a big glob of it on his thumb, he closes his eyes and imagines its Phil’s cum, Phil’s thumb as he pushes it into Clint’s tight—_

“And?” Inspection doesn’t surprise Phil, what he really wants to know is what makes Clint blush like that.

He whispers, “Spread Back, Sir.”

Phil resolves to get Clint on his back as soon as possible. 

“Eye contact restriction?” At Clint’s questioning look, he explains, “Requiring you to keep your eyes on me at all times, or not allowing you eye contact; that sort of thing.”

“None, and I… maybe—,” Clint tries to imagine it and gets nowhere, “I’m sorry, I just don’t know, Sir.”

“That’s okay, Clint. I don’t expect you to know how you feel about everything you haven’t tried yet. Just your best guess is fine, as long as you let me know it’s a guess. If you really don’t know then we’ll mark it accordingly.”

Clint lets out the breath he didn’t know he was holding, “Thank you, Sir.”

“What about voice restriction? Only allowing you to speak to answer direct questions, or not allowing you to speak at all, for example.”

“I’m not sure about that one either, Sir. I think I’ll either love it or hate it, or hate to love it.”

“Bathroom control?”

“What, like watersports?” Clint asks with a disgusted look, “Sir?”

“No, this would be having to ask permission to use the restroom, or being restricted on when you’re allowed to use it.”

“Oh. Okay. Then none and two, but only because it’s not a limit. I don’t think I would like it but maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. As long as I never have to ask you for permission in front of anybody. That would be a zero.”

“Crawling is already one of your limits, can you tell me why?”

“I’d never done it until Garrett, Sir,” Clint feels a grim sort of satisfaction remembering what it was like to punch Garrett, “First thing the bastard did was tell me to get off the furniture and crawl, and then to,” Clint air quotes, “‘Show him what my cocksucker lips could do’ and then I kind of punched him.”

“He what?! Clint, honey, I would have punched him too. That’s no way to ask for your Kiss. I’m going to have words with him on Monday.”

“Don’t worry about it, the Garrett situation is handled, Sir.”

Phil is a little worried about what that means but figures he will probably find out soon enough. 

Clint’s embarrassed now of how he reacted to Garrett in Phil’s office; if he hadn’t avoided knowing anything about proper submission all his life he would have expected Garrett to push for a blow job and he would have probably done it. 

Thank God he hadn’t. 

He knows what he’s building with Phil is only temporary, Phil is giving his expertise in making Clint into as close to a passable submissive as he can for whoever ends up being his real whiphand and Clint’s grateful for the little bit of Phil that Clint will be able to keep in his memories. 

“And Garret is the only person you’ve ever crawled for?”

“Yes, Sir, but my mom spent her entire life on her knees.”

“Do you think that’s a fair assessment of what all crawling isn’t like?”

“I— I guess not, Sir.”

“If I agree to not humiliate you, do you think you might be willing to try? For me? Please.”

“I—,” Clint is about to object but then he swallows and nods, “Okay, Sir, but only if you let me stop whenever I want, no questions ask.”

“If and when you crawl for me you’ll be allowed to stop at any time but I reserve the right to ask you what’s going in in your head.”

Clint thinks about it for a beat and then says, “Fair enough, Sir. What’s next?”

“Forced exercise.”

Clint laughs, “Do you really think that’s something you have to force me to do? Sir.”

“Let’s call it exercise control then; if you misbehave I may cut your range time beyond what you need to stay proficient or I may send you off to practice if I think you need to get out of your head.”

“Fine,” Clint huffs, crossing his arms, “A two, Sir. I don’t like it, but it’s not a limit.”

“Forced masturbation?”

Clint blushes and looks away, his cock has been going up and down like a yo-yo during this whole thing and the thought of not just masturbating for Phil but being _forced_ to do it has it up as it can be. As much as his cock likes the idea, Clint isn’t so sure it’s a good idea to agree to it. He shakes his head, “Uh-Uh.”

“Clint, be honest.”

“None, Sir,” he almost whispers.

“And?”

He shakes his head again, pressing his lips together.

Phil reaches down and caresses Clint’s lower lip with his thumb, “Answer me, sweetheart, or you’ll keep your mouth open for the rest of the checklist.”

Clint parts his lips and as Phil pulls his hand back he darts his tongue after Phil’s thumb.

“Clint.”

“I— two, Sir?” He can’t bring himself to look at Phil. 

“Is that your honest answer?” Phil leans over him and squeezes Clint’s cock through his jeans.

Clint whimpers and thrusts up into Phil’s hand, “Five, Sir, Five.”

“Good boy,” Phil says, sitting up and Clint whimpers again at the lack of contact and the dirty feeling of being called good when he knows he isn’t, “Unzip and show me your cock, sweetheart.”

He moans as he obeys, setting the cage to the side and pulling his cock out over the waistband of his boxers, barely keeping from stroking himself, digging his fingers into his thighs hard enough that he’s going to have bruises. Good. He’s being good. He’s trying to earn one of those all to frequent ‘good boys’, “Please, Sir, can I touch myself?”

Phil gets a cruel look on his face that makes Clint immediately regret asking, “Wrap your hand around your cock but no stroking and no thrusting; if you do the cage goes on.”

Clint’s head and shoulders’s drop and he asks, “Is it too late to change my mind? Please, Sir? I don’t think I can.”

“If you don’t get your hand on your cock right now, boy, I’m getting the ice.”

“Ohhh,” Clint moans, his hand going around his cock so fast that he squeezes a little too hard.

“And no squeezing. Keep your hand loose.”

“I hate you, Sir.”

Dear Lord, the way that makes Phil feel should be illegal, “Do you really?”

His moan this time is more of a whimper, “No. Sir.”

“Forced Orgasms”

“Fuck me,” Clint says tilting his head back and squeezing his eyes shut as he struggles to keep his hand lose on his cock. 

God, Clint is beautiful like this, the ragged edges of his torn sleeves leave his arms bare from the edge of his shoulders down, his open jeans frame his hand and cock, the long line of his throat bound in leather, and his face, a mix of pain and pleasure that sets Phil’s heart racing. He wishes he had his crop right now, the way he would make Clint cry and moan— the mental image has Phil swallowing down a moan of his own.

“I need a level and a number, sweetheart,” and the hoarseness of his voice has nothing to do with the damage to his throat and everything to do with his rapidly slipping control.

“None and— and five, I think. Sir,” Clint looks at Phil with pleading eyes, “But I also kind of don’t want it?”

“You can either squeeze your cock once or keep your hand loose and stroke it once.”

“Thank you, Sir,” it’s almost worse than nothing, this slow tormenting of himself. 

Clint squeezes his cock until Phil says, “That’s enough. Loosen up,” Clint bites his lip and forces his hand to go loose, “Clothing restriction.”

“Like being naked for you? Sir.”

“Naked or wearing what I choose. Deciding what you’ll wear is part of high protocol so eventually it will be my choice regardless unless you safeword but I do want to know what you rate it.”

“I— It depends, Sir. I don’t like— it’s hard, thinking of myself as a sub,” the irony of saying this as he sits at Phil’s feet with his cock in his hand purely because Phil told him to is not lost on him, “And this—,” he shakes his head, “Having to be naked for you, or having you dress me up like I’m some sort of doll? I don’t know, Sir. But you have great taste, so having you pick out my clothes wouldn’t be all bad.”

“Diet restriction?”

“What would that cover, Sir?”

“I would decide when, where, and how you eat.”

“I’m not eating off the floor, Sir,” he says coldly, feeling himself soften in his hand, “Bowl or no bowl. I’ll walk before I let that happen. And you know I need to keep my calorie intake up or I get cranky.”

“But you did enjoy it when I fed you on the couch, right?”

“A little too much, Sir.”

“I want to work on your limits around hand feeding. I think if done with care you would really enjoy it.”

“I— maybe, Sir,” Clint says doubtfully. 

“Being on a leash?”

“Zero,” but he moans as his cock stiffens in his hand.

“Why?”

“I don’t— I’m not some fucking— Sorry, Sir— I’m not a pet, or a toy. You can’t just lead me around on a leash like I’m some kind of dog.”

“And if I were to use it because I want to keep you close to me, or to force you to stay in a particular spot, or say… hold you in place while I fuck you?”

Clint’s breath catches, “Maybe… maybe a two? Sir.”

“Are you sure?”

Clint starts to shake his head ‘no’ but catches himself, biting his lip and then whispering, “I’m sure,” even though he’s not.

Phil considers pushing for a beat, but decides to move on for now, “Dirty talk?”

“I love it, especially when it’s you, Sir. Um, advanced five.”

“Boot polishing?”

“I’ve never done it before you and three? I mean, it’s fine but it doesn’t do anything for me.”

“I’m assuming openly public scenes are a hard limit?” At Clint’s quick agreement he follows up with, “What if they’re discreet? Something only you and I know is happening. Like having bondage under your clothing or teasing you? Like whispering all the filthy things we’ll do when we get home”

“Oh,” Clint moans, his erection back full force and he knows it’s a losing battle to not move his hand as his fingers twitch, “I guess it depends on the type of public play? Sir. I don’t want to be embarrassed and I don’t want to do anything that will have people treating me like I’m a sub but I kinda don’t ever want to turn down dirty talk from you.”

If the almost begging tone in Clint’s voice hadn’t been enough to make Phil’s rock hard cock throb, the look in his eyes surely would have done so.

“We’ll take it case by case then. I’m already in control of your orgasms and that’s not changing but I do want to know how much experience you have in being denied and if you can cum on command.”

“Denial’s never really been a thing before you and I’m not exactly a fan but it’s not a limit. And… I don’t know, it does something to me, knowing I only get to come when you allow it. I’ve never cum on command before; I’m not even sure how that would work?”

“We would condition you over time to a key phrase, which could be as simple as,” he lowers his register, “‘Cum for me, Clint’—”

“Fuck, Sir!” Clint shouts as his cock throbs and a thick bead of precum slides down his cock and over his fingers, “Don’t, I can’t! Please let me— my hand— Sir!”

“Hands off,” Phil says in that same darkly rich tone, “And clean you fingers.”

“Ohhhh,” Clint moans as he licks his precum off the back of his knuckles.

“Struggling or resisting? Forcing you to submit or fucking you against your will?”

Oh sweet fucking Christ, those words out of Phil’s mouth, the thought of Phil taking him—

 _Taking_ him. 

“I used to think that was the only way I could submit, Sir,” Phil’s heart breaks a little, “Advanced and I’d really like to try it sometime? Five. Please, Sir,” he sucks the back of his knuckle into his mouth with an obscene sound, begging. Taunting. Daring. Saying, _‘Make me’_ with his eyes.

Clint begging Phil to make him submit is the most erotic thing Phil’s ever seen and this is all spiraling out of control. 

He bears down on his will, cutting off any thoughts of Clint’s siren call, “We can talk about it more in detail when we plan a scene around it.”

Clint’s cock pulses again, not if, _when_ ; this time his precum slides down his cock unimpeded and he tilts his hips towards Phil, “ _Please_. I mean, yes, please, Sir.”

Phil has to close his eyes at the wave of pleasure that gives him and then he opens his eyes and clears his throat, almost immediately regretting it as he’s reminded yet again of the damage his earlier mistake cost him, and not just to his body, “Moving on: foot worship?”

Clint whimpers at the brisk change in Phil’s tone and tries to swallow down his lust. He shrugs, “None, three, Sir.”

“Body worship, giving and receiving”

“Uh, none and maybe four for both? Sir.”

“What about cock worship specifically?”

“Five, Sir,” Clint says quickly, and he’d make a suggestion about letting him show Phil how much he wants to worship Phil’s cock right now, but he’s trying to be good. 

“Competition?”

“Like who can make the other cum first? That sounds like a five.”

“That or having you complete with another submissive, privately, of course.”

Clint goes cold, “I don’t want to have to watch you with another submissive, Sir. Please don’t make me do that. It’s bad enough that I keep failing you—”

“Clint, you aren’t failing me. You’re learning, yes, but it’s a process and you’re picking up things faster than I thought possible and I had expected great things from you.”

“Really?” Clint asks, searching Phil’s eyes and finding the truth.

“Really. Given enough time I think you’ll even leave Victoria’s harem in the dust and they’re world class.”

“I… okay. Maybe if it was just you and another couple we trust that won’t make fun of me or talk about me with people we know. And only if we’re both sure I can win, Sir,” Clint smiles.

“Journaling?”

“Like keeping a diary? What am I, twelve? Sir.”

“Diaries aren’t just for children, Clint. I keep one myself.”

“Of course you do. Sir.”

“It could be your daily thoughts and emotions, especially around sex or submission. Or it could be like a mission report after a scene.”

“Well,” Clint smiles, “I know how much you love my reports, Sir.”

Phil sighs, “Your reports are abominations against man and God,” Clint is pretty sure ‘the submissive doth protest too much’, but he doesn’t challenge Phil on it, “Journaling isn’t something I require and you’re really good about being honest and answering my questions but if I think it might help you process I may have you do it. What would you rate it?”

He’s about to answer ‘three’ but then remembers those dirty illuminations that he hadn’t gotten around to and says, “Four. Sir.”

“Serving as an object; anything from furniture or art, to an ashtray or toilet.”

“Zero. Or… being art for you might be okay. But zero for the rest. If you try to make me your ashtray I might honestly try to kill you, Sir,” his tone is almost vicious, remembering all the nights his father would use his mother that way, the burn marks he would leave behind. He only once came after Clint and Barney with a lit cigarette and his mom had… intervened. 

That was one of the times she had ended up in the hospital. 

Phil can tell there’s something more there and makes a note to follow up on it further another time, for now it’s not something he has any interest in and delving into where that particular landmine comes from can wait, “Fair enough. Symbolic jewelry, such as an anklet or or cufflinks with my mark.”

Clint’s breath catches and before he can think better of it he blurts out, “Five, Sir.”

Phil hums as he makes his notes and it doesn’t sound like a bad hum, so Clint doesn’t think he’s revealed too much.

Phil doesn’t show how having Clint wear his symbol makes him feel; Clint’s still planning on finding another whiphand eventually and Phil knows that letting Clint know the depth of his feelings will make things awkward at best and scare Clint off completely at worst.

“Sleeping restrict—”

“Zero. Triple zero. I can’t sleep with you. I just can’t, Phil— Sir. I’m sorry.”

“This includes giving you a sleep schedule, like not letting you sleep in on your days off,” Clint scowls, “And letting you sleep in the dungeon isn’t a good long term solution.”

“Do we really need a long term solution, Sir?” better to rip the bandaid off than dance around it, “We both know this is only temporary.”

Once again Clint looks for a sign, any sign that Phil might not want that, that maybe this could be more than temporary, that he might want to keep Clint not for SHIELD but for himself, and once again Clint’s disappointed and he’s not sure why he keeps throwing out these gambits knowing that he’s only hurting himself. 

Phil keeps his dismay from his face; he knows this is just temporary for Clint, hell, Clint throws it in his face every chance he gets, but some part of him still holds out hope, useless as he knows it to be.

“Let’s table sleeping arrangements for now—”

“Sir,” Clint says, his warning clear.

“—what would you rate controlling your sleep schedule? Under true high protocol every aspect of your life would be mine to control, of course, but for our purposes it’s good for me to have a number.”

“I don't know how you plan—,” he cuts himself off at Phil’s look, “Two, Sir. That part isn’t a limit but seriously, I don’t think you can control— ugh. Fine. Whatever. Sir.”

“Just a couple more and then on to fetishes.”

“Uuuuugh.”

“Come on, honey, we’re halfway through.”

“Can we maybe take a break once we’re done with this section, Sir?”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Well, you could always let me,” he looks at Phil's lap and licks his lower lip before biting it.

“Alright, last two and then I’ll let you warm my cock for twenty minutes while I catch up on my email.”

“Excellent! Sir. What’s next,” Clint says, almost bouncing with eagerness to finally get to suck Phil’s cock.

“Chauffeuring.”

“Like getting to drive Lola? Or finally getting you on the back of my bike? Sign me up. I’m starting to like this whole list thing, Sir,” Clint says with a smirk. 

“No, not Lola, but if we’ve checked out a SHIELD vehicle, I might have you act as a professional driver, not just just driving but opening my door, waiting by the car. We could even get you a uniform.”

“Oh,” Clint says, disappointed, “Then a three. Sir.”

“The last one is roleplaying, we would take them case by case, but this could include a teacher-student scenario, or kidnapping and interrogation, as examples.”

“Okay, then I guess depending on the scenario anywhere from a zero to five, Sir.”

“Are there any scenarios or fantasies you particularly want?”

“Well, there’s one, but…”

“No wrong answers Clint, the more data I have the better I can take care of your needs.”

“Maybe I’m smarting off in your office, or you're mad about one of my reports and you spank me over the knee on your couch and then fuck me over your desk and I try to stop you, Sir, but I can’t and —,” Clint breaks off, breathing heavy, fingers clawed into the cushion, cock standing up slick and needy.

“And would you want this actually at the office or in a mock up here?”

“I— we can’t at your office, Sir. If someone— I couldn’t—”

“Only Fury has the override codes for my office.”

“You mean— I— Oh, God, _Sir,_ ” Clint says as his cock curves towards his stomach, “Please? Please can we? Five, that one’s a five, Sir.”

“I’ll make some room in my schedule,” Phil says calmly, like they’re setting up a meeting for a debrief and not at all like he’s seconds away from taking Clint right here on the floor, “Now I think it’s about time you wrap those pretty lips around my cock.”

“Yes, _Sir.”_


	20. Chapter 20

Clint’s hands are on the inside of Phil’s thighs before he even realizes he's moved and then Phil’s hand’s in his hair, twisting so violently that Clint cries out and he has to blink away tears.

“Clint! I thought you were going to be good?”

“I was! I am! I thought you wanted me to suck you off, Sir?”

“First of all, I expect you to be polite and secondly you aren’t going to be sucking my cock, you’re going to be my cockwarmer.”

“What’s the difference, Sir?” Clint moans at how good it feels when Phil forcibly tilts Clint’s head back to look him in the eyes.

“Have you never been a cockwarmer, Clint?”

“I thought that was some sort of protocol language for a blowjob like a Submissive’s Kiss or whatever. Sir.”

It still gives him that thrill to call Phil ‘Sir’, even though he still forgets half the time and has to tack it onto the end of whatever he’s saying. He would have thought that after the last hour or so he would have adjusted to it, or become numb, but each time it rings through him, reminding him he’s Phil’s submissive, and saying it this often has the edges of subspace sparkling at him. 

He’s starting to like it.

He might even be getting to like it too much. 

Phil feels himself get even harder than he already was in anticipation for Clint’s mouth on his cock; he’s had a preview of what Clint’s mouth can do around his thumb, knowing that all that pleasure will be held in check purely by his will is a powerful aphrodisiac. 

The fact that he’s the first Clint will be doing this for makes it exponentially better.

“Kneel right here, sweetheart,” he says, letting go of Clint’s hair. 

Clint shifts until he’s Kneeling with his knees perfectly spread, his bruised ass on his heels, his cock framed on display by his jeans and boxers; he crosses his wrists behind his back, knowing it shows off his shoulders and chest, glad he picked out the tight sleeveless t-shirt for the day.

He bows his head and waits for Phil’s next order.

Phil slowly undoes each of the buttons of his fly, nearly breathless at the stunning picture Clint makes and he knows if nothing else he’ll have this memory to hold on to for the rest of his life. Pushing his underwear down he strokes his cock a couple times, “I should punish you now for your impatience. I could stroke myself off and cum on your face and make you leave it there while we finish the checklist.”

Clint moans not sure if he’s more turned on by the idea or dismayed at the thought of losing the chance to put his mouth on Phil’s cock. Maybe if he begs enough Phil will let him suck his cock and then cum on his face— though maybe it would be better if Clint can convince him to let Clint swallow him; or a little bit of both, marking Clint inside and out? 

“Please, Sir, I’m sorry, I didn’t know. I’ll be good, Sir, I promise. Please? Please use my mouth, Sir?”

Phil shuts his eyes for a second, nearly overwhelmed by Clint’s plea, “I’ll let it slide, this time. But Clint?”

“Yes, Sir?” Clint looks up from Phil’s cock to his face.

“If you can’t show more restraint the cage goes on.”

“Yes, Sir,” he says miserably.

Phil nods once, satisfied he’s made his point, “Now, when I give you permission you’ll put your mouth around only as much of my cock as I give you. No trying to take more, no using your tongue, no sucking, just hold it. You're going to keep it warm for me while I get some work done.”

“This sounds like a punishment, Sir.”

“We’ll see how you feel afterwards. If you’re _very_ good, I may fuck your face a little.”

“ _Fuck,”_ Clint breathes out, “I mean, thank you, Sir.”

“Tell me what you’re about to do.”

“ _Phil,”_ Clint groans and at Phil’s stern look says, “I’m going to warm your cock, Sir,” Phil’s expression becomes expectant and he continues, “When you give me permission I’m to take your cock in my mouth but only as much as you give me, Sir. No tongue, no sucking. If I’m good, and I will be, I promise, Sir, you’ll fuck my face.”

“I _might_ fuck your face.”

Clint’s whimper has a drop of precum welling up from Phil’s slit, “You might fuck my face, Sir.”

“Good boy,” Clint moans and his cock leaks even more, the tip shiny and pink as his slick wells up and slides down his shaft, “Alright. You may begin. What are you doing!” Phil snaps as Clint brings his hands forward and Clint looks hurt and confused.

“I— what you asked, Sir? I promise.”

“Keep your wrists crossed behind you.”

“Oh,” he says, blushing and returning to form, “I didn’t know— I mean I’m sorry, Sir. I’ll do better.”

“Are you sure you don’t need the cage as a reminder?”

“No! No, Sir. Please? Please, I’m sorry. I don’t need the cage, I’ll be good.”

“You said that before and I’ve already warned you about your impatience.”

“It wasn’t impatience, Sir, I promise. I just didn’t know I was supposed to keep Kneeling. I know now, it won’t happen again, Sir.”

Phil sighs. He can’t believe he's letting Clint get away with it _again,_ but all his common sense seems to go out the window when it comes to indulging his boy.

“If it happens again you’ll be wearing it the rest of the weekend.”

Clint shivers, “Yes, Sir.”

Phil raises his eyebrow.

“If I’m impatient again you’ll make me wear the cage the rest of the weekend. Sir.”

“I’m worried you don’t believe me. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve let you off with a warning.”

Clint lowers his cheek to the top of Phil’s foot, this close he can’t quite bend his back enough to do it without lifting his ass until he’s almost bent in half and it’s more of a compact Present than an Obeisance but he hopes it gets his point across, “I believe you, Sir. _Please?”_

Phil frowns in consideration, trying not to let the beauty of Clint’s submission sway him, but he already knows he’ll let it go for now, Clint has him wrapped around his little finger. But so help Clint if he misbehaves again, Phil means it, he can’t keep letting things like this slide. 

“Kneel,” Phil says, pressing his fingers to the back of Clint’s neck, and once he’s back in position says, “Okay, let’s try again. You may begin.”

“Thank you, Sir,” Clint says with subdued respect as he leans forward tightening his core to keep his balance. He licks his lips and then slowly, _finally,_ puts his mouth around the tip of Phil’s cock. Phil pushes in slowly, giving Clint a comfortable mouthful and he swallows carefully, eyes begging Phil for more, praying he's doing it right.

After 37 seconds he lets his eyes flutter shut as he feels a languor sweep over him and he startles, worried he was drifting to that dangerous sleepy place.

“Shhhh,” Phil says, running his hand through Clint’s hair, “I’ve got you. You don’t have to worry, Clint; I won’t let you go too deep. Just keep holding my cock exactly like this, no more no less.”

Clint sighs and lets his faith in Phil support him as his mind slides into subspace.

Had Phil thought Clint was beautiful before? Like this he’s perfection, so much so Phil feels the faint sting of tears. 

He knows he said he would catch up on work but he can’t seem to look away. He continues to pet his boy, watching him for signs that he’s slipping from the low key subspace he’s in into something deeper and when he looks like he is Phil shifts a little, forcing Clint have to pull back, or pulling out until Clint follows Phil’s cock with his mouth, keeping him right on that sweet edge of light submission.

When the time’s up he tightens his fingers in Clint’s hair, painful enough for Clint’s eyes to flash open and lock onto Phil, his whimper muffled by Phil’s cock. 

“I’m going to fuck your face now, sweetheart,” Clint shivers around him, “I want you to stay loose. You can swallow as much as you need to, but no tongue and no sucking. Nod if you understand.”

Clint moans softly and the barely there friction of his nod is so good Phil has to hold back a moan of his own, then he grabs the sides of Clint’s head, careful of his BTEs and starts thrusting swift and shallow without any preamble, still only giving Clint the first couple of inches of his cock.

Clint moans louder and twists his wrists together at the small of his back and he has to hold back the need to suck, the urge to cum, to try and take more of Phil than he’s giving, to take Phil into his throat, aching with need, the only thing saving him is the thought of having to wear the cage the rest of the weekend. 

“Perfect,” Phil tells him and Clint moans, low and deep and keeps moaning and whimpering as Phil continues to torment him as much with his words as his cock, “Just like that, Clint. Stay warm and wet for me, let me use your mouth. This isn’t for you, it’s all for me and you’re going to be good and let me fuck you just like this for as long as I want aren’t you?”

Clint nods frantically around Phil’s cock, blinking away the tears leaking from his eyes.

“That’s right, because you’re mine, Clint, mine to use and abuse as I see fit, mine to fuck, mine to—,” Phil cuts himself off from saying ‘love’ and it’s enough to push him over the edge, “Swallow it all, baby, swallow it, swallow my cum, oh, God, _Clint.”_

By now Clint’s sobbing around Phil’s cock, his self-restraint killing him, not sucking, or using his tongue or showing Phil with his mouth all the reasons why he should keep Clint, own him not just for this sloppy, shallow face fucking, more a tease than anything else, but forever and when Phil cums Clint nearly does too, his howl of pain and lust and love and frustration caught deep in his throat as Phil cums across Clint’s tongue and he swallows and keeps swallowing, drinking down every drop of cum, feeling owned, captured, fulfilled, this is where he belongs, on his knees, serving Phil.

Phil’s breathing heavily as he lets his spent cock slip from Clint’s mouth and he grabs a tissue, cleaning himself and then wiping Clint’s mouth and chin clean. 

“That was very good, honey. I’m so proud of you,” Clint’s face is tearstained and blotchy, his eyes red, as he alternates between panting and gulping sobs, he bows his head falling back into a perfect Kneel. Phil brushes Clint’s hair back where it’s fallen over the small bandages above his bruised left eye, “Good boy.”

“Ohhhhh!” Clint clenches his fists behind as he tenses, barely holding back his orgasm; if Phil says that again he’ll be _gone,_ “Please don’t say that, Sir, I’ll cum. I don’t want to cum I want to be good, _please.”_

“Okay, sweet boy, okay,” Phil says, continuing to pet Clint as he comes down, his satisfaction nearly doubling as Clint obediently denies himself his own orgasm.

When Clint’s caught his breath he says, “I’m— I’m good, Sir,” then remembering something from the book, says reverently, “Thank you for the gift of your cum, Sir.”

Oh, God, he just swallowed _Phil’s_ cum; they haven’t even kissed and now Phil is inside him, irrevocably part of him.

“Oh, honey,” Phil hadn’t intended this to be Clint’s Kiss, typically the submissive demonstrates their devotion actively, not passively, and Phil would have made him take his whole cock, but if Clint sees this as his Kiss, Phil can’t deny him and he completes the ritual, “I Vow to see to your needs as if they were my own. You can Sit now, if you want to.”

“Thank you, Sir,” Clint shifts over to his hip and brings his arms back to his sides, moaning as it jostles his cock.

“Do you want to cum now, or later, sweetheart?”

“Is that a trick question, Sir?”

Phil smiles, “Maybe.”

“I don’t suppose ‘both’ is an option? Sir.”

“You would be correct.”

“What’s the difference, Sir?”

“I can promise you’ll like the second one more but if you choose it and then cum before we finish the checklist—”

“I know, I know. The cage,” there’s no way Phil won’t do everything he can to get Clint to cum without permission, it’s a matter of whether or not Clint thinks he can resist. He just wishes he knew what the difference between them was, how much better waiting would be, “May I have a hint, Sir?”

“Both will be painful, waiting more so.”

“Ugh. That doesn’t help at all, Sir.”

“Oh, was I supposed to be trying to help?” Phil asks with mock innocence as he rakes his nails down Clint’s bare arm.

Clint whimpers as pleasure/pain goes straight to his already over eager cock and knows he won’t be able to last, no matter what the reward, Phil will make sure of it, “Now! Please, Sir, now?”

“I want you to crawl to the door to the dungeon, then you can stand and go get one of the green velvet cloths from the toy cabinet, second drawer on the left. When you get back to the living room I want you to crawl to me. I’d like you to keep the cloth in your mouth but if you need to you can keep it in your hand. You’ll Kneel for me and stroke yourself off with the velvet. If crawling is too much too soon you can walk, but if you walk I will be disappointed.”

Being allowed to touch his cock, to make himself cum for Phil sounds amazing, but Clint doesn’t think he can crawl, not even with Phil’s incentive, “Is it too late to change my mind, Sir?” 

“I’ll allow it, for a price.”

“Oh, no,” Clint sighs, “What will it cost me, Sir?”

“You’ll have to pinch or twist your nipples while we finish the checklist. If I don’t think you're hurting yourself enough or you think that will be too difficult you’re allowed to pick out a set of clamps to help you.”

“ _Fuck,”_ Clint presses his face into Phil’s thigh and grabs on to Phil leg to keep his hands off his cock, there’s no way he’ll be able to hold back his orgasm if he’s playing with his nipples. Hell, just the thought alone almost has him cumming, “That was mean, Sir.”

“Thank you.”

Phil gives him a moment to recover, “Get crawling or start pinching your nipples, unless you don’t want to cum at all?”

“No! No, I want to, Sir. I want to.”

Clint takes a couple deep breaths and then curves onto his hands and knees facing the dungeon door, his cock hanging out of his pants. He’s going to have to be careful with this or crawling is going to pull his pants off, which would be even more embarrassing than crawling already is. 

And if it comes down to it he can just stand up. 

It just means disappointing Phil. 

Fuck. God damn it, futz. Okay. How hard can this be. It’s not like Phil’s going to laugh at him, or degrade him. It’s… it’s completely submissive but he _is_ a submissive. _Phil’s_ submissive (for now). 

He’s swamped with a sense memory of crawling for Garrett, full of hate, of seeing his mom broken and defeated.

This isn’t that. 

It’s different. 

It’s for Phil.

He closes his eyes and tentatively places one hand out, then follows it with the opposite knee. 

It’s only about eight feet to the door, he can do this.

God, what is he doing, this is insane, what was he thinking. No orgasm could possibly be worth it. He’s got his head so full of sex, so full of Phil that he isn’t thinking straight. How did this get so out of hand?

No. No, he wants this. Wants to cum. Wants to submit to Phil.

Even more, Clint doesn’t want to disappoint him.

_‘Stop worrying about making it all the way there or what you look like. Take it one step at a time. That’s all; just move your left hand forward, don’t think about what comes after.’_

Clint’s been frozen in place long enough that Phil starts to get worried, “Clint?”

“I— I— I’m sorry, Phil— Sir,” he sits back on his heels with a whimper as they connect with his ass and wraps his arms around his middle, his shoulders bowed with shame, looking at his stupid trouble maker of a cock standing tall and gloriously oblivious to Clint’s inner conflict, “I tried. I really tried but I can’t. Fuck! Why is this so fucking hard. It shouldn’t be so hard.”

Phil comes down off the couch and kneels beside Clint; projecting his intent he lays his arm across Clint’s shoulders and pulls him close in a sideways hug.

“Landmines,” Phil reminds him, “I’m proud of you for trying.”

“But you said—”

“I know, I shouldn’t have. I wanted to be sure you tried your hardest but I should have known you already would.”

“But I failed. I failed _you,_ Sir.”

“No, honey, you didn’t.”

“Let me— I can try again, Sir. I just got all in my head. I can do this. I’ll make myself do this.”

“No, sweetheart, you tried and that’s all I wanted, this isn’t the kind of pain I want to see you in. In fact, I’m so proud of you I’m going to give you a little treat.”

“But I don’t deserve it, Sir.”

“Hey!” Phil snaps and he’s reminded again of how sore his throat is. He grabs Clint’s jaw, his fingers digging in hard enough that Clint’s cock twitches. He turns Clint’s face towards his, “Who gets to decide what you deserve?”

Clint moans, “You do, Sir.”

“Go lay on the bed. Spread Back. Make sure you keep this,” Phil lets go of Clint’s jaw and strokes Clint’s cock twice and Clint moans, “Nice and hard for me, but you can’t use your hands.”

“Yes, Sir,” Clint says as they stand together.

“Clean this first,” Phil says, holding out his hand, his palm and fingers smeared with Clint’s precum.

Clint starts to lift his hands and then puts them crossed at the small of his back to keep from grabbing Phil’s hand. He’s starting to see the advantage of keeping his wrists like this. He dips his head and starts with little kitten licks, then wide laps of his tongue, finally risking small sucking kisses as he gets the last of it. 

He wants to suck Phil’s fingers into his mouth, to show Phil what he’s missing out on by not fully using Clint’s throat but he’s trying to be good; even trying he can’t resist a quick nip to the tip of Phil’s middle finger.

“Stop that,” Phil says, not so much slapping the side of Clint’s mouth as a sharp tap and Clint moans.

“Sorry, Sir.”

“You don’t bite unless you have permission.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Do I need to get a gag?” He would have Clint keep his mouth open but he can tell that right now that wouldn’t be a punishment. 

Clint shakes his head, “No, Sir. I’m sorry, Sir, I’ll be good.”

God, Hand would have a field day watching Phil let Clint walk all over him like this.

“Go. On the bed. Now,” Phil orders, heading towards the dungeon.

“Yes, Sir,” Clint says with a shiver as he obeys.

When Clint gets into onto the bed he finds it difficult to get into position with the tightness of his jeans; spreading his knees apart causes them to press up painfully under his balls, the pressure barely easing at all when he tilts his hips up and he finds himself rocking them, enjoying the varying levels of pain.

He moans and wishes he could use his hand but at the same time is grateful he’s allowed this much.

He crosses his wrists over his head and waits for Phil, wondering what his treat is going to be. 

He still doesn’t feel like he deserves anything but Phil giving him a reward only makes sense if he really is proud of Clint and not actually disappointed. 

He looks down his chest and sees his nipples are as hard as his cock. Nipple clamps right now will be exquisitely painful and he’s torn between hoping for them and dreading them. 

Phil comes in with his hands full. Clint sees some heavy gauge chain and leather cuffs, as well as a riding crop and he feels his whole body flush, “Oh, God, _Phil_ ,” adding at the last second, “Sir.”

Phil sets everything on the bed off to one side and strokes Clint’s cock a couple times, “Very good, You kept your hands where they are, right sweet boy?”

“Yes, Sir. I was good, Sir.”

“I knew you would be,” Clint groans as Phil squeezes tightly, “Now I need this out of the way for a bit. Don’t move too much, we don’t want the chain slipping.”

“Yes, Sir, I’ll try not to move, Sir.”

Clint’s submission flows over Phil like a cresting wave and he nearly purrs, “Good boy.”

 _“Fuck,”_ Clint whispers, pressing his head back into the pillows, showing his throat instinctively. Much like calling Phil ‘Sir’, hearing Phil call him ‘good boy’ twists something both exhilarating and terrifying in Clint in a way that he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to. 

Phil takes about six feet of chain and pins Clint’s cock down with the cool weight of it, letting the ends pool at his sides. It’s heavy enough that it’s not going to slip without some serious movement from Clint and he moans.

Phil rucks up Clint’s shirt to his armpits and then squeezes both his nipples, digging his nails in, and Clint’s back bows slightly off the bed, the chain clinking as he cries out, “Sir!”

Phil’s smile promises more pain, a promise he immediately delivers on, showing Clint a pair of clover clamps attached to each other by a long chain.

Phil loops them around the chain holding his cock down and Clint is moaning before they even touch his nipples and he was right the pain is exquisite. A constant whimper takes up residence in the back of his throat but he can’t help it. 

Next come a pair of thick leather cuffs stitched together so that once they’re in place Clint’s wrists will be secured crossing over each other; another length of thick chain is attached to the d ring of the cuffs and is then fixed to a hardpoint at the head of the bed. 

Phill hums and then comes down to Clint’s legs. He wraps his hands around Clint’s calves, lifts them so his knees stay bent, and _pulls._

“Ahh!” Clint shouts as he’s dragged down until the chain at his wrists is taut and his arms stretched to their limit over his head. The chain has slipped off his cock which is so hard that he can barely breath for it and his nipples are in agony. 

Phil lets Clint’s legs down until his feet are flat on the bed once more then pushes on his ankles until his legs are as wide as they can go in the constriction of his jeans and Clint swears he can feel each metal tooth of the bottom of his open zipper pinching up under his balls through the thin cotton of his boxers.

“Fuuuuuck, Sir.”

He doesn’t have too much time to focus on that pain while his nipples scream at him, Phil lifting and tugging the clamps via the heavy chain that slipped up his waist. When he’s sufficiently satisfied with Clint’s misery he pulls the chain back down, re-pinning Clint’s cock. 

Phil fusses with the chain until it’s exactly where he wants it to be, Clint’s clipped off whimpers and cries music to his ears. 

Clint’s balls are perfectly exposed and Phil massages them one handed as he explains what’s about to happen, “I’m going to take the crop to your balls until they're nice and red for me, and then jerk you off with the velvet. You’re allowed to cum just from the cropping if you want but if you can hold off I’ll let you cum in my mouth.”

“Ohhhhhfffffffuck! Phil— Sir, please,” Clint tugs his wrists as best he can and swallows a sob as he realizes they aren’t going anywhere.

Phil settles between Clint’s legs and brings down the crop with a swish and a sting, starting up a quick rhythm that soon has Clint writhing, tears running down his face, the chain across his dick rattling and pulling at the clamps and Clint’s whole world narrows down to the bright spots of anguish between his nipples and his balls, the pull at his wrists and the weight of the chain across his cock background noise to the symphony of pain. 

In almost no time at all, Clint is begging Phil, “Please, please, Sir, I can’t, I’m going to cum, I’m going to cum, please, Sir.”

Clint’s balls aren’t nearly as red as Phil was hoping to get them but this _is_ a reward and so he stops, then smiles with fierce pleasure and says, “Brace yourself.”

Terrified and eager for whatever is about to happen Clint squeezes his fists and his eyes shut and so he doesn’t see it coming when Phil crops his clamped nipples in quick succession.

“Nooo! Fuck! Oh, fuck, Sir, that hurt, thank you, Sir,” he pants, grateful for the warning, not sure if he could have kept himself from cumming without it. 

Sweet mercy, that feels good; Phil croons, “You’re welcome, baby. Was that enough pain or would you like a little more?”

“Ohhhh, I want more, Sir, but don’t think I can take it without cumming and I want to cum in your mouth, please, Sir?”

“Alright, sweet boy. I promise, you’ll have plenty of opportunities to cum from pain alone.”

Clint moans long, low, and sweet and says, “Thank you, Sir.”

Phil slides the chain so that it’s at the base of Clint’s cock, pinning his aching balls between the vee of his jeans and increasing the pressure on Clint’s nipples.

The velvet is smooth and soft as Phil stokes it down Clint’s cock but on the upstroke it becomes rough to the point of feeling abrasive and, fuck, Phil is devious because Clint can’t tell which is better, and then Phil takes it up another notch stroking faster and Clint’s precum quickly starts soaking the velvet as Phil says, “You’re so beautiful when you’re hurting for me my sweet slut, I can’t wait to taste you, to feel your cum on my tongue and swallow you down—”

Clint lets out a strangled, _“Phil,”_ which is the only warning Phil gets but he was watching for it and he swallows Clint down to the root as Clint starts to cum and the combination of Clint cumming with Phil’s name in his mouth and Clint’s cock down his throat has Phil’s toes curling.

It’s the most intensely satisfying orgasm of Clint’s life, he feels Phil in every cell of his body and has never felt so completely possessed by a dominant before.

“Holy shit! Fuck me. _Phil,”_ he collapses in a daze, “Phil, Phil, Phil— Ah-h!” The soft scream is pulled out of him as Phil unclips the clamps and Clint would be cuming again if he could. Phil lifts the chain off Clint’s balls and Clint whines, “Oh, no, Phil, _please,”_ and tries to reach out but is caught short by the chain holding his wrists down and his moan is so deep and sweet that Phil capitulates immediately.

Phil sighs, setting the chain back in place, “Just a little while longer, honey.”

“Thank you, Sir,” Clint says with a little slur to his voice and kept in place by the illusion of restraint across his body and the very real restraint of his wrists he lets himself sink fully into the warm embrace of subspace, the varied aches and pains that little bit of seasoning making it _perfect._


	21. Chapter 21

Clint is beautiful like this— well, he’s always beautiful, but soft and dreamy like this is a side of him that Phil has only just discovered and it’s already an addiction he isn’t sure he’ll ever get out of his blood. 

Every now and then Clint shifts and is reminded of Phil’s hold on him and he lets out a pleased noise, a gasp or a whimper, twice more those deep moans that completely disarm Phil leaving him helpless in the wake of Clint’s submission. 

Unable to resist, Phil leans up and sucks on one of Clint’s nipples, earning another one of those moans and so he repeats it with the other nipple before pulling Clint’s shirt down.

He pulls gently on Clint’s ankles bringing his legs flat on the bed and only slightly spread apart. Clint pouts as Phil lifts the chain and then sighs as Phil presses his lips to Clint’s spent cock before settling it into his boxers and zipping up his jeans. 

“Would you like some water, honey, or a snack?”

“Cuddles?” Clint asks hopefully, preparing himself to be disappointed and then chiding himself as of course Phil curls up next to Clint with an arm around Clint’s waist and his head on Clint’s chest. Clint snuggles into him as best he can with his arms taut above him. 

After a bit Clint seems to come up out of it and he says, “This was nice, Sir. I don’t get to cuddle very often,” the only one he’s ever actually cuddled with is Tasha, and never in the context of a scene. “I didn’t realize it could be like this.”

Phil props himself up on Clint’s chest and looks down at him, “Sleep like this with me tonight.”

Clint nearly agrees, it’s on the tip of his tongue but his eyes dip down and see the bruises around Phil’s throat and he shakes his head sadly, “I can’t, Sir.”

Even bound as he is he can think of several ways he could accidentally maim or kill Phil. 

“You know you can trust me.”

“It’s not you I don’t trust.”

He _can’t_ trust himself. Not with Phil’s life on the line. 

“Let me trust you enough for the both of us.”

“Phil. No.”

Phil sighs. He knows better than to keep pushing right now but he has several hours before it’s time for bed, he’ll have other opportunities to make his case.

“Alright honey, we don’t have to talk about this now.”

 _“Phil,”_ Clint warns him.

“I think you mean, ‘Sir’.”

“I— shit. I mean crap. I’m sorry, Sir. I completely forgot. Damn it. I really wanted that kiss.”

If Phil thought for one second Clint was manipulating him he would punish him no matter how it might break the soft mood between them but Clint sounds regretfully resigned and Phil finds himself giving more ground.

“My intent was to have you using ‘Sir’ while we were completing the checklist. Since we put that on hold I’m willing to restart and only count it against you if you miss it while we’re working on the list. Speaking of, we should get back to it. 

Clint groans and then asks, “Can we do it in here while I’m still chained to your bed, Sir?”

Phil is tempted but Clint is enough of a distraction all on his own, “No, you can have your choice of sitting at the kitchen table or at my feet by the couch.”

Clint is about to say the kitchen table, of course he wants to do this at the table where he can feel as close to on even footing with Phil as he can, but then his dumb fucking mouth says, “The couch, Sir.”

“Good boy.”

“Ohh,” Clint groans as his cock tries to rally for another round and he lifts his hips, “I can’t— when you say that, Sir— it’s too much.”

Phil takes mercy on him, for now, “Okay, honey. Let me uncuff you and then you can go sit by the couch.”

“Aww, do you have to, Sir?”

“Will you be able to keep focused if I leave them on?”

Clint bites his lip, then asks, “What will happen if I say yes but can’t do it?”

“Then you’ll be punished accordingly.”

“I don’t suppose you want to let me know what you have in mind?” Clint asks, smiling to show off his dimple to its greatest effect and batting his eyelashes in a patently over the top plea.

Unfortunately all it gets him is a coldly raised eyebrow.

God help Phil, but he wants to give in; the only thing that saves him is that he wants to finish the checklist to get a better idea of what punishments will work best on curbing his beautiful brat’s wayward behavior. 

Clint huffs, “Fine. Be that way, Sir. Can I have a few more minutes with them, Sir? _Please?”_

He slips his foot between Phil’s legs, stroking it up and down the side of his calf.

Clint’s foot is only slightly less of an enticement than the deep blue of his wide eyes and the dark pink of his Cupid’s bow lips and Phil can never let Clint know how helplessly under his spell Phil is. 

“One minute, but if you rile yourself up you’ll have no one to blame but yourself.”

“Mmm, thank you, Sir,” and with that Clint starts struggling against the cuffs in earnest, checking the strength of the reinforced fixture, the chain, and the cuffs.

Fuck, he isn’t going anywhere and Phil’s warning falls to the wayside and he moans.

He may only have himself to blame but Phil’s watches with rapt attention as Clint writhes beneath him and Clint wants to show Phil that Clint isn’t the only one affected by his struggles. He tilts his head back moaning again as he pulls them both up the bed with a flex of his biceps, rocking them so that Phil is more solidly on top of him, Phil’s cock firm against Clint’s hip, startling an, “Oh,” out of Phil and he can feel Phil grow even harder. 

Maybe Phil’s right, maybe Clint can sleep like this, if Phil’s safe then the only thing holding him back is his fear of losing himself to all Phil has to offer, but then that ship has already sailed. 

Clint feels his heart sink when he realizes how much slack he has now.

It had been foolish to get his hopes up. 

He regrets what he has to do next— okay, if he’s being completely honest he only regrets that he’s doing it to prove a point and not as foreplay because this is something he’s dreamt of doing for a long time. 

“Sir?” Clint says in a soft moan, “I’m sorry.”

“What are you sorr—!”

Clint uses his leg to drag Phil under him as Clint rolls on top of him, pinning Phil’s arms to his sides with his knees, his shins pressing down on Phil’s forearms. Clint gently touches Phil’s bruised throat with his fingertips, enough slack in the chain that had he wanted he could have used it to strangle Phil, a very real risk if he allows himself to try and sleep next to his whiphand. 

“I told you, Sir. I’m not safe. Say it.”

Phil glares at him, “It will be different—”

Clint squeezes with his knees and moves his bound hands until his palm is covering Phil’s throat and growls, “Say it, Sir.”

Phil definitely shouldn’t be as turned on as he is right now. Clint overpowering him makes Phil want to take him even more, wants all that barely leashed power under his control.

He isn’t completely helpless but to get out of Clint’s hold one or both of them could end up seriously injured. Not to mention it would be giving Clint exactly what he wants. 

Phil wonders if push comes to shove and he orders Clint to let him up if Clint will obey, and what Phil is prepared to do for putting Clint in this position if he doesn’t. 

There’s only one way to find out and Clint needs to learn that he is Phil’s to command and not the other way around.

“Clint,” Phil uses the deepest part of his register and it feels like gargling razor blades.

Clint’s face softens, his eyes lose focus for a fraction of a second, before Phil can do anything with that Clint’s expression becomes even more resolute than before, and he increases pressure on Phil’s throat in a barely there squeeze, his fingers lining up with Phil’s bruises exactly, and in the most authoritative voice Phil’s ever heard from another person he orders again, “Say it, Sir.”

Phil refuses to be swayed, “That’s quite enough of that. Let me up.”

“No. Not until you admit it’s not safe for me to sleep with you, Sir.”

“You’re in enough hot water as it is, _boy_. Don’t make this any harder on yourself.”

“Sir—”

“I’m not going to tell you again, Clint. We both know you will never intentionally hurt me. I’m willing to discuss safety measures with you but you will sleep in this bed next to me someday, I promise you that.”

“Phil—”

“It’s _Sir_. And you’ve officially lost the privilege of using my name until further notice.”

“I— what?” Such a simple punishment shouldn’t hurt so much but it does, “Please, Sir,” Clint begs, he shifts his legs so they’re no longer pinning Ph — Sir’s arms and he moves his hand from Sir’s throat to over his heart and Clint can feel his heartbeat, “Please?”

Phil raises an imperious eyebrow.

Clint’s shoulders slump and shifts off of Phil until he’s on his knees to the side of Phil, his bound wrists in front of him, Clint’s bowed head causing that fringe of hair to fall over his bruised left eyebrow and Phil’s fingers itch to brush it back but he can’t let Clint think of it as a sign that Phil is weakening. 

Phil sits up and unbuckles Clint’s wrists with quick efficiency, “Stand next to the bed,”

Clint obeys, keeping his head bent and his posture as submissive as possible, trying to placate Sir, too little, too late. 

“You’re going to Follow me into the dungeon,” they get no more than two steps when Phil stops saying, “Wait.”

“Sir?”

“Have you read up on Follow yet?”

“I don’t think so, Sir.”

“Stay three steps behind me and to the left. Your right arm should be even with the center of my back and you should be able to touch me with a fully outstretched arm after taking one step forward. Good.” Phil says as Clint falls in line with his instructions, “When I stop you come to a stop exactly one step behind me.”

Clint follows him into the dungeon and up to the cabinet. Phil opens one of the long doors and takes the blue leather leash off hanging from a hook and turns to hook it to Clint’s collar.

Clint shakes his head and takes a step back.

“Get back here.”

“Please? I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pinned you, you don’t have to— I’m sorry, Sir.”

“I’m not some kitten for you to steamroll over, boy. Now, if you don’t get back in place I can promise you it will get much worse,” Phil strokes the chain leash with its spiked collar hanging next to the empty spot the blue leash so recently vacated.

Clint whimpers but steps back into Phil’s reach, “Please don’t, Sir. Not this, please?”

“You need to be reminded of who’s in control here. If you learn nothing else by the time I’m through you will learn to respect your whiphand,” he hooks the leash to Clint’s collar, rattling his SHIELD tag reminding them both that SHIELD is the only reason the other is here. 

“I do respect you, Sir; I do. Please. Please take it off.”

“You at best pay lip service to my authority as your whiphand and we both know it. You’re going to learn your place if it’s the last thing I do.”

Worse than the weight of the leash, Phil— fuck, Sir’s words slice through him like tempered steel. Clint isn’t sure what scares him more, the thought that he’s going to strip Clint down until he has nowhere to hide his submissiveness, or that he won’t.

“Follow,” Phil says and starts leading Clint across the room.

Clint gasps as he finds that the leash is the perfect length for him to feel no tension if he stays exactly three steps back but as soon as he slips even an inch back he feels the sudden pull of his whiphand’s lead; he’s allowed the illusion of freedom as long as he stays within the boundaries his Sir has decreed. 

Phil brings Clint up next to the cross and drops the leash, “Take off your shirt, fold it, and set it on the bench and set the bench against the wall under the sawhorse, then get into Offering by the cross and don’t forget to kiss my leash before raising it up for me. 

“Yes, Sir,” Clint says apprehensively.

While Clint obeys Phil returns to the cabinet and grabs one of his most treasured items, his bespoke kangaroo leather bullwhip, designed, tanned, and hand braided to order by none other than Louis Vuitton. It’s one of a kind, a gift from his parents when he graduated from Stanford. He keeps thinking about going back and getting his Ph. D. But he just hasn’t found the time. 

If he’s being honest he had been thinking about it more and more, had slowly been warming Fury up into letting Phil train a replacement, right up until a master thief came across Phil’s path while on the trail of a completely different recruit in Nicaragua, speaking of, that’s been his main mission while Clint has been adjusting to SHIELD and he keeps meaning to ask Clint if he’s ever crossed paths with the eco-terrorist codenamed Mockingbird. 

But leaving SHIELD now means leaving Clint and he can’t do that to himself and, even more, he can’t do that to Clint. 

Not when Clint needs him so much; whether Clint’s willing to admit it or not. 

Phil’s willing to concede that he made a mistake with Clint earlier, for a couple hours there he was reminded every time he swallowed and though the pain had faded to where he only feels it when he strains his voice, he’s been more than reminded that he needs to tread carefully, an already difficult proposition with how quickly Clint is evolving into his role as Phil’s submissive. 

Clint blinks away his tears. He can’t think of anything he hates more than the leash. Even the cage is better than this. It gets in the way as he takes off his shirt, the leash and shirt getting tangled together, the shirt weighing down the leash until the pressure on his collar seems like it’s too much, like it will drag him down to his knees. 

He finally gets his shirt free and folds it carefully before setting it on the bench and moving the bench to the wall. The air is thick with meaning and he’s struggling through it like a diver with unfamiliar gear, unsure of his movements, the end of the leash hanging down and bouncing against his legs, the end trailing on the floor. 

Something about that feels wrong, feels disrespectful. He shouldn’t be letting Ph-Sir’s leash drag on the floor. He pulls it up until he’s holding the handle, and that’s better, it still belongs to Sir, but now Clint’s holding it for him.

Clint gets to his knees, spreading his legs to the correct angle then he brings the leash to his lips; he may hate it but it’s Sir’s and he had specifically reminded Clint to kiss the horrible thing. He has to blink away tears and he feels sick to his stomach, but he makes himself do it before bowing his head low and holding the leash end up on his palms. 

He watches through his eyelashes Sir walks toward him, a whip in his hand.

He feel’s a frisson of fear and lowers his head until it’s at the proper angle, though now all he can see is the concrete, not quite polished enough to offer a reflection for Clint to use to watch Sir approach.

He closes his eyes. 

Oh, God. What has he done? 

What was he thinking?

No, he had to, he has to prove to Sir that he’s dangerous. 

He’s been on the wrong end of a whip a couple times; he knows how much damage it can do, going past pain and into something that could cause real lasting harm. 

But that— that was with other dominants, in vastly different situations. 

Phil might not be safe with him, but he knows he’s safe with Phil.

Well. Everything except his heart. 

Phil’s breath catches at the sight of Clint’s perfect form, he’s never seen a submissive take to the Positions so quickly, so naturally; Clint can deny it all he wants, this is where he belongs.

This next part is going to be hard on both of them. 

“I’m so very disappointed in you, Clint,” he says in his most disapproving voice, and for a second he thinks that may have been to much, as Clint acts as though Phil has brought the whip down across his shoulders, sobbing as he collapses inward for a beat and then he shudders and returns to his proper position, though his hands beneath the leash tremble.

No, oh, _God,_ NO! It’s a million times worse than anything Clint had imagined and for a second he’s afraid he’s going to be sick, Phil’s words burn through him like acid and he’s crying in earnest now. 

Phil takes the leash and says, “Stand.”

Clint slowly gets to his feet, but he can’t manage to bring his head up into position, keeping it bowed, unable to looking straight; seeing the disappointment from Phil’s— no, no Sir told him and he’s right, Clint doesn’t deserve to use his name— he doesn’t think he can take seeing the disappointment from Sir’s voice on his face.

“Eyes front, Clint.”

He’s— He’s still using Clint’s name, so that must be a good sign, right? He isn’t calling Clint a stupid whore, though Sir wouldn’t would he, even if they’re both thinking it. 

He tries, he really does but he can’t make himself do it, “Please, Sir.”

He sounds so defeated that it’s heartbreaking and Phil wonders if he’s about to safeword— Clint knows he can still safeword, doesn’t he?”

“Clint. Look at me.”

There’s no ignoring the command in Sir’s voice and Clint chokes back his sobs and slowly raises his eyes, flinches away, keeping his head up but his eyes down; the disappointment he expected isn’t the only thing there, there’s also compassion, tenderness and it’s too much, “Please, I can’t, I don’t deserve—“

“That’s enough,” Sir’s voice cracks like a whip, “I don’t want to hear another word unless you’re answering a direct question or it’s your safeword.”

“My—,” Clint cuts himself off. His safeword? Sir will still let him—? Maybe he _should—_ but no, even if Sir would honor it, and Clint thinks he actually would, Clint deserves to be punished. 

He nods his understanding, and he has to keep flicking his eyes away from Sir, it’s too painful, seeing that expression is like staring into the sun; it alone has Clint’s safeword on the tip of his tongue.

“Turn around, put your hands up on the cross.”

Phil bends down and lifts the recessed o ring cemented into the floor, he loops the end of the leash through and ties it off. Clint’s tall enough that there will be constant pressure on the back of his neck, but not so much that it will actually pull him down.

Clint has his hands placed just above the padded leather cuffs and Phil silently fastens them around Clint’s wrists, checking the fit to ensure they aren’t too tight, that they aren’t too loose. 

He runs his hand down Clint’s arm to his shoulder and then tests the suppleness of his skin, planning out exactly where each strike will go, diagonal, starting at the top left and working down to the right. The welts should each be about five inches long, with the center inch being the worst part, just barely splitting his skin. The longer welts should last three or for days with some pretty spectacular bruising, and the cuts a week, maybe two since he knows Clint won’t give up his range time while they heal. 

Clint won’t be forgetting this anytime soon. 

“I’m giving you five with the whip for overpowering me without permission; these are to remind you who is in control. I’ll be breaking your skin but it will be light enough that it won’t scar. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sir,” Clint whispers.

“Louder, why are we doing this?”

“I overpowered you without permission,” and that’s something, isn’t it, that it’s not that he overpowered Sir, but that he did it without permission. Clint swallows, this next part is harder, “You are reminding me that you're in control, Sir.”

“Good boy.”

Oh, God, Clint is nearly sick again, it always hurts when he hears those words and he knows they aren’t true, but now, like this, it’s almost too much.

Phil takes a few steps back, swishing the whip a couple times, reminding himself of the feel of it, the weight, the suppleness. He has to get this exactly right, to be worthy of the trust Clint is giving him.

“Who do you belong to?” 

“You, Sir—AHH!” Phil flicks the whip wanting to brand the phrase into him. He’s _Phil’s._ No matter how temporary, he belongs to Phil.

Fuck, oh fucking fuck fuck that _hurt_. Nothing’s ever hurt like that, but then it should, he disappointed Phil, he was bad, his motives may have been good but he was a bad, bad boy.

The slight worry at the back of Phil’s head, the one that wondered how deep Clint’s masochism runs, that questioned if Clint would see this as a punishment, that he even recognized how far out of line he had stepped, dissipates at the sincerity and then pain in Clint’s voice.

“Who do you obey?” If this doesn’t drill it into Clint, he doesn’t know where to go next. 

Clint’s a little more prepared for it this time, not that that means much, “You, Sir— AH!”

The pain is just as bad, maybe worse and he feels a second line of agony bloom right below the first one. 

He’s been whipped bloody before, but never like this, it’s always been after he’s been fought down into his submission, with his lust cresting and almost as much pleasure as there is pain but now it’s all pain, pain still doesn’t come close to touching the crushing weight of disappointing Phil. 

Fuck. 

_Sir._

“Who do you belong to?”

“You, Si— AHH,” fuck, it’s not any easier, any better and he wants to beg but that’s been stripped away from him along with Sir’s name and his regard. 

“Who do you obey?”

It’s too much, he can’t— he _can’t_.

Phil waits for Clint to gather himself back together. He knows this is hard for him, it’s _supposed_ to be hard, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t regret the necessity. 

Sir doesn’t prompt him, doesn’t taunt him, he gives Clint space, gives him room to accept the pain, to accept Sir’s will, to settle himself in his submission. 

“You, Si— AHHHAH,” his knees feel weak and he has to hold on to the cross, _‘onemoreonemoreonemore’_ he just needs to keep it together for one more, for Ph- for Sir.

“Who do you belong to?”

Clint gets settled back in his feet and straightens up. He isn’t some weak little sub. He made a bad call— for the right reason but it was still a mistake, Phil’s right, everything is different now, Phil is the one in control and Clint can’t ever forget that. He belongs to Phil.

Shit. No; _Sir._

“You, Si— Ah!” He gives in to the pressure of the leash and hangs his head. He can feel the five distinct lines of fire across his back, and the initial pain, bright and sharp and cruel, has faded to a deep throbbing that starts to fill him with a sense of lassitude. 

He made it, he didn’t need his safeword, and he took his punishment like a good— no. No he’s bad, that’s why he had to be punished.

But.

But Sir’s going to forgive him.

Right?

That’s— everything he knows tells him Sir’s going to forgive him.

But does he deserve it?

Maybe this was a step too far?

Maybe— 

No. No, Sir just got done making sure Clint knows he belongs to Sir, he wouldn’t do that and then send him packing. He may try harder than ever to find Clint a real whiphand, and the only one Clint will ever want is Sir.

That should be punishment enough in its own right.


	22. Chapter 22

Phil coils the whip in one hand and comes up to squeeze the back of Clint’s neck as he gets a better look at the stripes across Clint’s back. 

Clint’s subdued, his hands hanging loosely in the cuffs and his head bowed.

Phil smiles with satisfaction, each stroke having landed exactly as planned, which isn’t surprising as his mother had given him his first training whip when he was eight and he makes it a point to keep in shape. 

Clint whimpers at Sir’s touch. His hand is warm and sure and Clint’s entire body thrums as it feels like Sir’s strength pours into him.

Rather than uncuff Clint from the cross he unclips the cuffs, leaving them on Clint’s wrists, then he unties the leash, “Follow.”

He leads Clint back to the toy cabinet and then turns and holds up the whip, Clint blinks a couple times and then leans forward and presses his lips to the leather. 

“Good boy,” Phil says, noting the pained expression that flits across Clint’s face as he sets aside the whip for cleaning later. He turns back and unclips the leash before holding that up as well. Clint’s lip curls and he shrinks back as he stares at the leash, “Come on, baby, you can do it.”

Phil wants to call back the endearment, but it’s too late. While calling a submissive honey or sweetheart is second nature, baby is something he’s only used when he’s been in love, and while Clint can’t possibly know that, Phil knows how quickly his boy picks up tells. He thanks God for subspace. Clint’s eyes are so dark that there's barely any blue left; for all his composure he must be flying pretty high.

Clint looks back to Sir’s face and sees only patience and understanding, not frustration and he thinks that’s what let’s him fight through his revulsion to kiss it a second time.

“Very good, Clint. I’m very proud of you. Follow.”

Phil turns and leads Clint into the bedroom, he sits on the edge of the bed, “You can sit next to me, on my lap, or Kneel.”

Clint gets a little frown between his brows as he looks between Phil, the bed, and the floor.

“This isn’t a test, honey; whatever will be most comfortable.”

Clint looks like he’s about to speak, and then he brings his legs together and crosses his wrists behind his back, a slight flicker of pain crossing his face, and he looks at Phil beseechingly.

“You want to stand at Attention?”

“Yes, please, Sir.”

“I don’t—,” Phil catches himself, any other submissive and he wouldn’t allow it, it’s more distance than he would like between them, but it isn’t any other submissive, it’s Clint. Any other submissive would be begging for comfort and maybe that's what this distance is for Clint; he’s always processed things differently. He’s further down that Phil’s seen him so far, and yet still so self contained. 

Even now, Clint’s clinging to his control; but that’s okay, Phil knows it will take time. He nods, “Alright, but if you change your mind the other options are still available.”

Some of the tension in Clint’s shoulders eases.

“What did you do to earn your punishment?”

“I overpowered you without permission, Sir, and I needed to be reminded that I’m not in control, Sir.”

“Who do you obey?”

Clint’s breath catches and he seems to waver on his feet, then he straightens and says with more emotion in his voice than Phil expected, “You, Sir.”

As much as Clint needed to be punished, Phil needs this, “Who do you belong to?”

Clint’s prepared for it this time and even so, he finds himself falling to his knees and bowing his head as he answers, “You, Sir.”

“Oh, come here, baby,” Phil says, and pulls Clint close enough that he can lean against Phil’s legs. Phil pets his hair as he says, “Very, very good, honey; I’m very proud of you, and I forgive you.”

“Th—,” Clint starts and then catches himself, hopes it wasn’t too late, he isn’t sure he could handle another punishment so soon after the last one.

“Good boy,” Phil says, “Do you think you can Kneel on the bed for me facing the headboard?”

Clint presses his eyes into Sir’s thigh and takes a breath before sitting back into Kneel, it awakens the bruises on his ass but they’re laughable compared to how his back feels, “Yes, Sir.”

Actually, his back is starting to feel kind of nice and with the weight lifted with Sir’s forgiveness, he lets himself enjoy the feeling and he lets out a soft sigh of pleasure.

Phil stands and then helps Clint to his feet; once Clint is on the bed Phil pulls out a coil of shiny black rope. He lays it out and then pulls the running end through the d ring of Clint’s right wrist cuff, then ties a thick knot on either side of the ring. He measures out some rope behind Clint’s back and then ties another knot before slipping the running end through the other cuff’s ring and tying it off on the other side.

“Down, now. I’ll help you. Keep your hands at your sides.”

Clint eyes Ph-Sir warily, he knows exactly what he’s up to and it’s not going to work. Sir supports him as he leans forward, letting him smoothly transition to laying on his stomach the rope has just enough give that he can rest his hands on the bed, though it pulls the rope tight across his ass, ramping up the pain from his belt marks and making him moan. Clint rests his right cheek on the pillow, which means he has a view of the French doors instead of the mirror, but he can guess what Sir is doing on the other side from the tension he feels on his right wrist, his left pulled slightly off the bed.

Sure enough, Sir comes around the other side of the bed and pulls the rope leading from his left wrist down to one of the recessed hard points on the side of the bed frame and pulls it taut until he’s pinned down. There’s something soothing in being secured like this and Clint sighs softly, settling further into the bed and into his own, delightfully aching skin. 

“I know a variety of different ways to tie you to my bed, baby,” damn it, he can’t help himself. Phil resolves to stop trying, better to make it seem like something he always says instead of it being a special term for Clint; Phil is the only one who has to know that each time he says it, it’s his heart saying ‘I love you’, “We can find a way that will let you feel safe enough to—”

Clint huffs and shakes his head.

Phil sighs, but let’s it go for now. He presses two fingers to the back of Clint’s neck, the leather from his collar is warm from Clint’s body heat and Phil has a sudden, visceral need to replace SHIELD’s tag with his own that he’s barely able to push down. His voice is deep enough to hurt his throat, a stark reminder of what he risks by pushing Clint to sleep with him. 

“I’ll be right back, will you be okay on your own for a couple minutes?”

Clint’s heart flutters at the way Phil’s voice drags him even further under and he covers it by rolling his eyes as he says, “Yes, Sir.”

“I was going to give you back your voice but if you’re just going to sass me—”

Clint whines.

“Will you promise to behave?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“You sass me again and you’ll be on voice restriction the rest of the weekend, do you understand?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Okay, then you’re allowed to speak.”

“Sir?”

“Yes?”

“Can I— I probably don’t… but could I,” Clint turns his face into the bed.

“What is it, baby?”

He mumbles, “Your name, Sir.”

Phil sighs and strokes Clint’s hair, he knows how hard all of this has been for his boy; he’s sure Hand or Billie would stay strong but something in Phil just melts seeing Clint like this, “Alright but, again, if you abuse the privilege you’ll lose it.”

Clint twists his head and kisses Phil’s palm, “Thank you, Sir.”

“Yes, well,” Phil clears his throat and immediately regrets it. He strokes Clint’s cheek, “I’ll be right back.”

Phil trails his fingers through Clint’s hair one last time before going to get a handful of ice packs and towels, as well as the first aid kit from the bathroom. 

He sets everything on the nightstand where Clint can see and then reaches over to squeeze one firm asscheek, “How are the belt marks doing?”

Clint moans and pushes up into Phil’s hand, “Good, Sir.”

“Good,” he says, squeezing the other side just to get another one of those moans, “I’d like you to take some Tylenol and then I’ll start icing your back.”

“Don’ need it,” Clint says, his voice starting to slur.

“I know you’re a masochist baby but—”

“No,” Clint shakes his head, though it kind of feels like being underwater and his words are thick and clumsy in his mouth, “No, Sir. I already did. Not due for more for a bit.”

“Good boy,” Phil says and is rewarded with a moan that sounds like it was pulled from the heart of a star and it goes straight to Phil’s cock. He distracts himself by wrapping the ice in the towels and resting them across each welt, Clint moans again, “Not too cold?”

“Hmmm, no, Sir. S’good,” he’s safe for the moment and though he knows he shouldn’t, knows that it will just be one more thing for him to miss when he’s gone, he lets himself fully enjoy it.

It’s not like anything he’s used to, usually he has to take care of himself after a scene and it feels sinfully decadent to let Phil do it for him. 

Hmmm, Phil.

His whiphand. 

He lets the fantasy that this is something permanent, something real, unwind around him and drifts into a pleasant state of subspace as Phil tends to his back. 

Some time later the gentle murmer of Phil’s voice resolves into words, “—thing to eat.”

“Why do you do that?” Clint smacks his lips and blinks into full awareness. Phil must have rubbed something into his back because the ache is just a soft background noise, at least when he doesn’t move. 

“Do what, honey?”

“Try to give me snacks all the time.”

“Are you saying you don’t want snacks?” Phil says playfully.

“No, of course not. _Of course_ I want snacks; but it’s something I’ve noticed with you. You’re always trying to feed me. Especially when I’m in subspace. I mean, I know I like food but it’s weird, right?”

“Clint, I take your aftercare very seriously.”

“Yeah, no, I get that— and don’t get me wrong, it’s great having someone else help bandage me up after a scene, especially those hard to reach areas, I just— are _you_ okay?” Something occurs to him, he’s never thought of dominants needing aftercare but maybe it’s like with safewords. He still doesn’t think safewording is something normal dominants even think of, much less do, but Phil is different from any other dom Clint’s been with, “Is feeding me something you need to do?”

“I just need to know you’re safe and comfortable. Well,” he slaps Clint’s ass and _fuck_ does it feel good; he gasps a little and tries to arch into it waking up the lines of pain across his back, which makes him moan, “Not too comfortable.”

“Again?” Clint begs as prettily as he knows how, which he knows isn’t all that pretty but, fucking hell he wants another one of those, “Please? Please, _Sir._ ”

He shouldn’t, Phil knows he shouldn’t, but Clint isn’t demanding the way he usually does when he wants something, he’s _begging,_ and Phil’s firmly wrapped around Clint’s little finger and isn’t going anywhere anytime soon, “One more, baby.”

Phil waits, letting Clint’s anticipation build, until he gives Phil a tiny whimper and presses his ass up into the rope pinning him down, and then gives Phil him a swat that’s as vicious as the first was playful.

Clint twists under the rope, alternating between thrusting his hard cock into the mattress and pushing back up into the rope, seeking out Phil’s hand, “Please? It’s _so_ good, Phil, please?”

Clint is temptation incarnate and Phil’s hand is in the air before he gets control of himself. 

“I said, ‘One’ Clint. Now settle down.”

Clint huffs and pouts but stops moving, which is good enough for now, “Good boy.”

Clint moans and squirms, unable to stop himself. Jesus fuck, that’s almost as good as the spanking.

He wonders if he could get off just from being bound like this and Phil calling Clint his good boy.

Yeah, probably. 

He would hate himself afterwards but he would definitely get off on it. 

Maybe because he would hate himself and not in spite of it. 

God, he’s fucked up. 

“Agree to sleep here tied up tonight and I’ll give you a spanking to remember.”

Clint goes cold, “No.”

“I can tie you so you—”

“Phil. I’m not going to risk hurting you again. I mean, watch,” Clint tells him and then pushes himself forward under the rope, bending backwards and it hurts a little too good, his cock had started to go down at the thought of all the different ways he could hurt or kill Phil, but it comes back with a vengeance as he finishes in a kneel with his hands still tied behind him, his back and neck arched in a stretch that makes him moan under his breath, he isn’t doing this to feel good, but to show Phil how flexible he really is, he turns his head and catches Phil’s eyes, the predatory look on his face doing nothing to help with Clint’s inconvenient erection, “I’ve been tied up and left alone enough times that I’ve just become too good at getting out of things.”

“Oh, honey,” Phil says, horrified that anyone would leave Clint like that.

“No, it’s okay, Sir, I promise, they weren’t coming back, I wasn’t disobeying anyone or nothing,” If anything, Phil looks even more upset, “Really, I know it doesn’t seem like it sometimes but I know how to behave, I promise. I just can’t trust myself when I’m asleep.”

Phil’s so disconcerted at the thought of someone abandoning his boy that he forgets the arguments he’s prepared and instead hurries to start untying Clint.

“Come on, baby. Let me get you free and I’ll warm up a scone for you, then we can get back to the checklist. How does that sound?”

“Sounds great!”

Clint was expecting more of an argument, and he’s sure Phil isn’t going to let this drop, but Clint’s contortions and confession seems to have side tracked him for now. 

He hopes Phil isn’t judging him too harshly. 

He’s willing to admit that maybe a couple times he ducked out knowing that Bobbi would probably be back eventually, at least in those early days before they got used to each other’s ways. But it wasn’t like she expected him to stick around once the scene was over, especially not after the first few times. Jess certainly never wanted him around when she was done with him and he never really gave Jen the chance. The rest were mostly one night scenes with even fewer expectations. 

Somehow he thinks Phil would never leave him like that, even if Clint tries to provoke him into it.

Probably especially then. 


	23. Chapter 23

They’re back at the table, the plate with the scones nothing but crumbs, as Phil pulls up the checklist. 

“I expect you to use the appropriate honorifics.”

“Sir, yes, Sir.”

Phil doesn’t let his smile show, the last thing Clint needs is encouragement, “And mind the sass, I think you’ve courted enough punishment for one day, don’t you?”

Clint shifts his shoulders and feels the pull of the whip marks across his back. 

Chastised, he says, “Yes, Sir,” with the proper amount of respect.

Phil could happily drown in the sound of Clint’s submission, “Good boy.”

Clint swallows down his whimper at the praise.

“Let’s see, where were we? Ah, yes fetishes. You seem to like leather?”

“Who doesn’t?” Clint says with a quirk in the corner of his mouth, just enough to show his dimple. Before Phil can remind him to stay on track he says, “Advanced, five, Sir.”

“Latex, rubber, and vinyl?”

Clint shrugs, “None, Sir, and three?”

“Lingerie?”

 ~~ _Matthew_~~ _Clint bends at the waist as he pushes down his slacks, revealing lacy boxer briefs the same shade of green as his corset. The tops of his stockings are in the same lace, in contrast to the sheer black of the silk and are connected to the briefs with green satin garters._

Clint blushes, turned on and embarrassed by the ridiculous mental image, “Not really a satin and lace, sub, am I, Sir?”

“Maybe you haven’t found the right lingerie, I think you would be devastating with just a scrap of red lace. I could tie you up and tease you, maybe spank you until you’re as red as—”

“Five!” Clint interrupts and shifts in the chair trying to relieve some of the pressure of his cock against the front of his jeans, but all that does is remind him of the marks on his ass and back. He whimpers, “None and Five, Sir.”

Phil smiles and makes more of those little notes. 

“Foot or boot worship.”

“Eh,” Clint shrugs, “I guess I don’t mind the high protocol Greeting or whatever, but other than that I don’t have any experience with it. Beginner and three, Sir, I guess.”

“Gloves?”

“None, Sir. Three,” thank god they're getting into the bland stuff, his poor cock might actually get some relief. 

“Smoking?”

“No,” Clint barks out, “Zero.”

He says it so vehemently that Phil marks it as a potential landmine and doesn’t correct him for dropping the ‘Sir’. 

“Oral fixation?”

“Like blow jobs, Sir?” Clint asks eagerly.

“Like wanting to suck on things other than cock, possibly to the exclusion of fellatio or intercourse.”

“Oh,” Clint says, sounding disappointed, “I guess I like having things in my mouth and I like sucking on fingers or whatever, but I would definitely rather have your cock down my throat than anything else in my mouth, Sir.”

He licks his lips and leans forward and Phil has to swallow, “Experience and rating, please.”

“You sure you don’t want to give my throat a spin, Sir?”

“Clint, focus.”

“I am focused, focused on—”

“Clint! I’m pretty sure I’ve proven I can make things unpleasantly uncomfortable for you, unless you have a punishment fetish and actual want me to—”

“No! No, Sir, I’ll be good. Uh, maybe beginner and three or four. I guess it kind of depends on what I’m sucking on, Sir.”

Most of the rest of the list Clint is pretty neutral on with a few exceptions, medical play is a hard limit, as are bodily fluids other than cum, and under certain circumstances spit or blood. 

The thought of being recorded while submitting terrifies him more than just about anything on the list, and Phil swears to never take any pictures or videos of him submitting.

He’s never tried erotic dancing before, but he knows how to work his body and is willing to try for Phil some time, and he blushes again when Phil brings up shaving. 

“I’ve never been comfortable enough to let someone shave me, Sir, and never felt the need to keep bare for any dominant.”

“Would you do it for me?”

“I,” he bites his lip, “Okay, but I want something in return.”

Phil raises his eyebrow.

“Don’t ever take away your name again, Sir,” Clint looks away, afraid of showing too much, though it’s probably too late.

Phil frowns, “Clint—”

Clint meets Phil’s eyes, throwing caution to the wind, “Please, Sir.”

Phil studies him for a beat before countering, “I will save it for severe punishments and if you're on silent voice restriction my name isn’t an exception.”

Clint lets out the breath he was holding and nods.

“We’ll shower together tomorrow morning and I’ll show you what I like then.”

Clint shivers, “Yes, Sir.”

He wonders if Phil will let Clint suck him off in the shower. Shower blow jobs are awesome. 

“Okay, moving on to gear, posture collars?”

“Ugh. I’m having enough trouble with this one, Sir,” Clint says, flicking his tag.

Phil’s brow furrows, “Is it bothering you, Clint?”

“Uh, not exactly, but it’s kind of… _always_ there. I’ve never worn a collar before and after the first couple of days I could sort of ignore it but then bam! All of a sudden it’s like it’s choking me and I can’t breath. Sir.”

“Okay, if it happens again you have my permission to take it off until you catch your breath.”

God, what is he doing? Telling Clint he can take off his collar whenever he wants?

That startles Clint, “Really, Sir?”

This is going to bite Phil on the ass, he just knows it, but it’s worth it for the hope in Clint’s voice.

“Yes. Like with most things, if you abuse the privilege you’ll lose it, but if it becomes too much you can have a couple minutes without it.”

“Oh, thank you, Sir; I’ll be good, I promise.”

Clint is again inexperienced and neutral on most of the list, perking up at Phil’s, “Spreader bars?”

“Yeah! I mean yes, Sir. Maybe beginner? And five, Sir.”

Phil doesn’t actually own any spreader bars and he makes a note to pick up a variety pack to experiment with, he can place it with the same order for Clint’s custom cock cage, and will have them throw in some Sassy Sub Soap. If he places it after they finish the list he can include anything else that comes up and he should have it all in the next couple of days. 

When they get to the gags section, Clint is good with most of them, though he prefers to have them forced on him, the exception being the spider and ring gags.

“I had a dom use a spider gag once to keep me from biting off his dick while he used my throat and I hated it, but it… I’d wear it for you, Sir. Of course, I want to suck your cock, so it’s a little different. Maybe a two for punishment and a five for play, but I don’t know, I could just hate it hate it?”

Phil makes a considering noise as he makes his notes and then says, “On to the next section, Punishment.”

“I think I’m pretty well versed on that at this point, don’t you, Sir?”

Phil plays a hunch, “You don’t have a lot of experience with actual punishments, do you?”

“I mean, I’ve been beaten plenty but—,” he bites his lip and turns away, shit— damn it, he forgot about the swearing, he’s already given himself away. 

But…

Maybe he kind of wanted to. 

He takes a breath. 

Phil’s let the silence run on and Clint’s sure it’s only been to let him get enough rope to hang himself. 

He straightens his shoulders, “I haven’t had many long term dominants and never any with any rules like you have, Sir. Punishments really only kind of work when I feel bad about whatever I’ve done. I mean, if I do feel bad then they suck, hard, and maybe…”

“Maybe?”

“They can maybe send me into drop but don’t worry, I can handle it, Sir, you won’t need to do anything. Just maybe give me a little space I… uh, I get a little stabby when it happens? But it doesn’t happen very often, I promise, Sir, I won’t bother you with it if it comes up.”

Phil’s stomach churns. He knew he should have made them finish the list before doing anything and he let his dominance get the best of him, the thought of Clint in sub drop twists him up inside, “Oh, baby, I don’t ever want you to hide if you're in a drop. I want you to come to me and we can work through it together.”

“That’s… not a good idea, Sir. Like I said, stabby.”

“I think we can both agree that some of your coping mechanisms might not be the healthiest. I want you to promise to let me try to help you through the next one. There are a lot of different ways to help you through a drop and I think we can find one for you that doesn’t involve anyone getting stabbed.”

“Sir,” Clint says, but Phil stops him.

“I’m serious Clint. We try it my way, if you feel like it isn’t working then I’ll give you space, but I want you to at least make the attempt.”

Oh God. 

Okay, it will be fine. All he has to do is not drop in the first place. He usually goes months, if not years, in between them, so it’s unlikely to come up anyway.

“Okay, Sir. If I drop while you’re my whiphand, I promise to come to you first before dealing with it myself.” 

“Good boy.”

Clint winces; he really isn’t, but he doesn’t argue, whether because he already knows what Phil would say, or because he likes it even though it hurts he isn't sure. 

“I think your honesty deserves some sort of reward. Is there something you would like? Something I can give you right now?”

“Well…” Phil raises his eyebrow, “You could tell me what I would have gotten if I had picked waiting to cum, Sir?”

“I don’t think you're going to think that’s a reward, baby.”

“Aw, please? I’m dying to know.”

Phil sighs, “Alright. I was going to tie you to the spanking bench and use the belt until you begged me to fuck you instead of spanking you, and then let you cum with my cock in your ass.”

Clint whimpers with deep regret. The scene earlier had been awesome. Well, until Clint had ruined it, like he does everything. That would have been even better. He leans forward and bats his eyes, “We could still do that, Sir?”

“I tell you what, let me tie you up and sleep with me tonight and we will.”

Clint makes a small broken sound and looks like he’s on the edge of giving in when he straightens up and says, “No, Sir.”

“Well, if you change your mind, let me know.”

Clint makes a small sound of complaint, “I like most belts and canes and floggers too much for them to really be a punishment, and even the single tail is fun if I’m already ramped up.”

“Have you ever knelt on rice?”

“No, Sir. Is that really a thing?”

“Oh, yes, and effective too. Let’s hope you don’t have to find out.”

The punishment section goes fairly quickly, mostly because of Clint’s inexperience. The only thing he sets as a hard limit is doing chores, which isn’t a surprise. 

Clint agreed to set up a swear jar with a roll of pennies next to it. Phil will check the jar from time to time and the more pennies, the more severe the punishment, though Clint will be able to keep them to the lighter side if he begs to be punished sooner. 

Things get sticky when they move on to aftercare. Clint has virtually no experience with it and is resistant to all of Phil’s suggestions, afraid of being lulled back into that sleepy state of submission. 

They agree to tread carefully with it as long as Clint keeps an open mind. 

Phil is making some final notes when Clint says, “Is that, are we done? Did I— do I get my kiss, Sir.”

Phil smiles, “You did very well, I told you you could do it. Come here, baby,” Phil pats his lap and Clint gets up and straddles Phil’s legs. 

Clint braces his hands on Phil’s shoulder and lightly grinds his ass moaning as he feels Phil respond. 

“Stop that,” Phil says with a swat on Clint’s ass even though he knows that will only encourage him, “Can you behave and accept my kiss or do you need the cage first?

“Please, Sir, no. I’ll be good.”

“Good boy,” Phil says and part of him wants to say it again just for the way Clint shivers in his lap. Phil cups either side of Clint’s face and urges his head down until Phil’s lips are ghosting over Clint’s and then suddenly his hands are the back of Clint’s neck and the base of his skull and Phil pulls him sharply in the rest of way, immediately plundering Clint’s mouth; where Clint has prepared himself for something tender and drugging it’s instead powerful and possessive, branding Clint with his kiss and at first Clint is so startled that he instinctively rises to meet Phil’s challenge, kissing him back with an equal amount of fervor, nearly taking over the kiss before he remembers to yield and he prays he remembered soon enough to avoid the cage, thinking that even if he hasn’t kissing Phil was worth the risk. 

Phil isn’t sure which is better, the way Clint surges up to meet him, giving back everything Phil gives him and more, or how sweet it is when he finally surrenders.

Phil thinks it might be both and he loses himself in the kiss, afraid to face what he’s already lost. It isn’t Clint’s fault that Phil can’t hold on to his heart. 


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve had a heck of a time finding BDSM ASL resources, if you have any let me know. 
> 
> There isn’t really a ‘sir’ or ‘ma’am’ in ASL, but I figured in a BDSM AU they would have something. I’ve seen BOSS used for ‘sir’ a couple times, which is a clawed hand tapping twice on the shoulder (representing the weight on their shoulders) with a ‘d’ for dominant instead of five clawed fingers, but I’m not a fan of initialization. That being said, if I think of it as a ‘1’ instead of a ‘d’, and have it curl in like the fingers in the traditional sign for boss, I think that still works because then it’s like “#1 boss” which is fitting, and it has the added bonus of being gender neutral. 
> 
> My ASL to English dictionary (here: https://www.handspeak.com/word/asl-eng/) didn’t have this particular sign match up to any existing words, apologize if this is already a sign for something else. 
> 
> No disrespect is meant to the Deaf and signing community, and this is in no way a sign meant to be used in the real world.

That night Clint is in his boxers hovering by the right side of Phil’s bed as Phil comes out of the bathroom in his silk pajama bottoms.

“I’m not sure this is a good idea, Sir.”

“I promise, I won’t let you fall asleep; besides, you have to remember to keep your mouth open, which should help.”

“Kinda hoped you had forgotten about that.”

“Not a chance, now, stop stalling and get in bed.”

Clint sighs, “Yes, Sir.”

If feels a little awkward, letting Phil pull him into a spooning position.

Good, but awkward. 

At first Clint thinks he might be able to get away with only opening his mouth when facing Phil, but Phil has them so that his lips are pressed high on the back of Clint’s shoulder, his stormy blue eyes almost silver in their reflection in the mirrored wall as he looks Clint up and down. The sheet is around their hips and Phil has one arm curled around Clint’s waist, holding his back close to Phil’s chest, warm where they’re pressed together, Phil’s chest hair rubbing deliciously against the welts across Clint’s back.

Phil pointedly looks at Clint’s mouth and Clint sighs, parting his lips and then hiding the bolt of lust that runs down from his mouth to his cock.

“Good boy. Normally I would turn the lights down, but we’ll wait until you're more comfortable.”

“Phil—”

“Sir,” Phil reminds him, though it’s dangerous, the way it makes him feel when Clint calls him ‘Sir’.

“Sir, me getting comfortable is the problem.”

They’ve been arguing about it off and on all day. 

Phil was finally able to get Clint to agree that for the first couple of nights Clint will go to his cot in the dungeon when his hour of cuddling is up, then they’ll move the cot to the end of the bed and see how he does sleeping in the same room. 

Once he’s able to start sleeping the night through he’s agreed to sleep in Phil’s bed, but only so long as Phil cuffs his wrists together and to the headboard without any slack. Phil’s worried that Clint will be even more distressed waking up bound but has agreed to try it for at least one night.

“Do you trust me?”

“Yes, but—”

“No ‘but’ either you trust me or you don’t; and it’s okay if you’re not there yet; I know how much of this is new for you.”

“No,” Clint says with a faint frown marring his brow, “No, Sir. I… I trust you, Sir.”

“Thank you, Clint,” Phil says, and kisses Clint’s shoulder, “Mouth.”

Clint huffs in frustration and rolls his eyes but parts his lips again and is less successful at hiding the way it makes him feel.

Phil can’t resist praising him, “Good boy.”

“Uhh, Phil, don’t,” Clint begs softly, pressing back against Phil in a sinuous movement that has Phil’s cock taking notice.

“Don’t what, sweet boy?”

“Mmph, that, Sir,” Clint’s cock twitches as he feels his submission start to sink into his bones, “You know what it does to me when you talk like that.”

Phil does, he can see it in Clint’s eyes, dark and shining, indigo being swallowed by black, and the way the sheet around his hips tents up and he is so very, very tempted to tease Clint for the next hour, to show him all he could have by staying in bed, but Clint’s scars run deep, and Phil’s throat still aches when he forgets to be gentle with his voice. 

“I’m sorry, baby,” Phil says, kissing the side of Clint’s neck above his collar, just behind the corner of his jaw, “I’ll be nice.”

“You know what would be nice,” Clint says, rubbing his ass back against Phil’s cock, “Is if you finally let me get your cock down my throat. My mouth would definitely stay open then. Please, Sir, let me show you what I can do.”

Phil’s control hanging around him in tatters but he manages to reprimand his brat before letting him go any further, “Clint! I’m putting you on voice restriction. No more words until we’re done cuddling.”

“What! No,” Clint begs, then yipes when Phil’s hand drops to grab his balls and squeeze, the squeak turning to a moan when Phil increases the pressure and Clint pushes into Phil’s hand and then back against Phil’s cock as the pressure becomes more intense and he turns his face into the pillow and brings his hand up and places it flat on his bare chest, rubbing a slow clockwise circle, «Pleeeease,» and Phil’s not sure if he’s begging for more or for Phil to stop. Phil doesn’t think Clint knows either. 

“Settle, or I get the cage. And you better not have closed your mouth.”

Clint whimpers and keeps his eyes closed but turns his face back to the mirror to show his parted lips.

“Good boy.”

Clint’s eyes flash open in a glare and he gives Phil a frustrated grunt, which has Phil squeezing again. Clint tilts his head back with another whimper, showing his throat, the SHIELD tag warm in the hollow bellow his Adam’s apple, torn between obeying and turning around and pushing Phil to the mattress, straddling him and grinding his ass against Phil’s cock the way he wants to, forcing Phil to force him to submit. 

But no, he doesn’t have permission and he belongs to Phil. He’ll obey, he’ll be Phil’s… good boy, he whimpers, Phil is in control, not Clint and he can’t let himself forget it. 

Phil has mercy on him and moves his hand until it’s squeezing Clint’s hip instead and Clint sighs in relief, lowering his head and bring his fingertips up to his open mouth then bringing his hand forward and down, followed by tapping his shoulder twice with a hooked index finger, «Thank you, Sir.»

“No more signs, either.”

Clint gives him a small whine before sighing with a small nod. His eyes dart to Phil’s in a question. 

“You can nod or shake your head but that’s it.”

Clint nods again and with another sigh settles back against Phil.

The rest of the hour feels a lot like corner time, in a good way. 

If Clint’s being honest, he kind of likes corner time, even though it still feels like a punishment. He likes having the time to gather his thoughts and it’s nice to know he’ll have a space of uninterrupted time to do so. 

At some point Phil’s grip on Clint’s hip softens and he starts rubbing Clint’s hip bone in small circles that are soothing rather than arousing.

He starts to feel like he did on Phil’s couch while Phil fed him fruit and cheese and that’s enough to jolt him out of his lassitude but Phil calms him with soft shushes and says, “I won’t let you sleep, Clint. I promise. You can relax as much as you want.”

Clint bites his lip and nods, then remembers himself and parting his lips once more. It takes several long minutes to get back to that almost dreamlike state of submission, each time he swallows and opens his mouth again sinking a little more, but once he’s there he lets himself drift, trusting in the security Phil’s offered. 

He loses track of the passage of time, unusual for him, but he reminds himself he trusts Phil, that he doesn’t have to be aware of his surroundings, that Phil is protecting him. 

He wonders what it would be like to have this for real, to be in Phil’s bed every night, not just being able to let himself sleep, but to let himself believe they don’t have an expiration date. 

He wonders if his next whiphand will be anything like Phil, he can’t imagine being like this when anyone but Tasha— he’s still a little shocked he can be this way with Phil.

Phil loves this, loves the closeness, loves the warmth, that it’s Clint, sweet and sore from everything Phil’s put him through, his mouth submissively parted for Phil and his eyes heavy with contentment, it’s so simple and yet this may very well be the best night of Phil’s life. 

He keeps the regret from his voice when he lets Clint know, “That’s time, baby. You can have your voice back.”

Clint shakes his head and turns until he’s facing Phil, hugging him tightly. Phil rubs his hand lightly up and down Clint’s back as he returns the hug, being careful of the whip marks,“You should go get some sleep, sweetheart. I’m not going to let you sleep in tomorrow just because it’s Sunday. I want us to start working through the book bright and early. We have a lot of ground to cover.”

Clint groans into Phil’s shoulder but nods again before getting up and going to his roo— the dungeon. 

He had been afraid he would have trouble getting to sleep but after putting his ears away, checking his knives, and turning out the light, he crawls onto the surprisingly comfortable cot and is asleep almost instantly. 

~~~

Monday just before noon Clint’s walking down the hallway towards Phil’s office, he’s still on downtime after Veracruz for another forty-eight hours unless something big comes in, and he’s decided to come in and surprise Phil for lunch.

Sunday had gone smoother than Saturday, though it would have kind of needed to, wouldn’t it? His ass and back have settled into pleasantly sore, though there’s a few more bruises than before and he’s found he prefers Sitting on a cushion to sitting at the kitchen table.

He starts whistling one of Phil’s big band songs, _Let’s have a party, let’s celebr—_

“Hey, hot stuff, I heard there was a new slut in town,” Clint doesn’t quite register the words but the slap on his ass has him grabbing a wrist— Rumlow’s, he should have guessed, twisting it up and around and slamming him into the wall.

“I’ve told you before to leave the subs alone, Rumlow, what makes you think anything’s changed just because you know I’m one?”

“Let me go, bit—OW!” Clint twists a little harder.

“I think what you meant to say was, ‘I’m sorry, sir’.”

“Fuck y—AH! Fuck! I’m sorry! Jesus, I’m sorry!”

 _“‘Sir’,_ unless you’ve gotten a promotion I haven’t heard about?” Clint pushes up on his wrist, not enough to make Rumlow scream again but the hint of further pain is enough.

Rumlow grits out, “I’m sorry, sir.”

“Good boy.”

Rumlow snarls and pushes back but Clint wraps his free hand around Rumlow’s neck and uses his most dominant voice, “I don’t want to have this conversation again. Are we clear?”

He remains stubbornly silent and Clint squeezes his neck, “I said, ‘Are we clear?’”

Rumlow struggles once more and then his shoulders drop as he accepts Clint’s dominance. His quiet, “Yes, Sir,” lets Clint know that he’s gotten the message and Clint’s sure that by the time he and Phil are back from lunch the entire office will know that as far as anyone at SHIELD’s concerned, nothing’s changed. 

~~~

The next several weeks they find a kind of rhythm; it’s not without their troubles, Clint’s landmines are real, and all too often they clash with the high protocol Phil is trying to teach him, but Clint makes a good faith effort to learn and Phil tries to accommodate him as much as he can. 

Clint develops a habit of saying ‘landmine’ whenever he feels his mother’s shadow, and they learn how to step around or disable them one by one.

In addition to studying _Submission_ and following Phil’s guidance, they slowly get Clint used to sleeping next to Phil, and sooner than he had ever thought possible he’s sleeping the night through, bound by nothing but Phil’s arms.

Phil still gets tangled up in his expectations of what submission should be, on what it looks like, but Clint thinks Phil’s making progress, even if it sometimes feels like two steps forward, one step back. 

Both of them carefully tip toe around the topic of Clint’s future whiphand and even go days without mentioning it though they both have to keep reminding themselves why the other is really here. 

~~~

“Holy shit.”

It’s a testament to Clint’s prowess that Phil doesn’t even stir to make a disapproving noise at the profanity. 

Clint lays his head back into the vee that they’re laying in, one side is the mirrored wall, cool against Clint’s flank, the other side the mattress pulled off the bed in their struggle. 

Clint’s on top of his wrists, bound by Phil’s belt, Clint’s shirt tangled up around his arms. His pants are likewise twisted around one ankle along with his boxers, if you can call them that. 

Clint had worn the scrap of red lace as a tease, something to push Phil over the edge and by God did he get his money’s worth. 

He’s even gotten Phil to call him a whore— well technically when Clint begged Phil to call him a whore Phil forced Clint to say he was Phil’s _precious_ whore, Phil’s and Phil’s alone, which made Clint feel all kinds of things he isn’t about to examine now; the endorphins are just too good and he doesn’t want to ruin the mood. 

Phil groans, pushing himself off Clint’s chest until he’s up on his knees, his legs more on top of Clint’s than next to them in the tight confines of the space around them. 

“Ouch,” Phil says and massages his right shoulder, frowning as he pulls his shirt, the first few buttons gone, off to the side and sees a perfect imprint of Clint’s teeth, matching the set on the inside of his left forearm. 

A look of doubt crosses Clint’s face, “I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be,” Phil smiles down at Clint, his hair mussed and his lips red from Clint’s biting kisses, “Would you want me to be sorry for this,” he braces a hand on Clint’s chest and reaches down to press his thumb into the bite mark on the side of Clint’s neck just above his collar. 

Clint moans and tilts his head back, giving Phil greater access, “Of course not, but—”

“Or this,” Phil cups Clint’s jaw gently brushing the base of his thumb where his elbow had connected reflexively when Clint had caught him from behind; it’s red and splotchy now, and is going to turn into a spectacular bruise that Phil knows Clint will carry with pride as it heals.

“No, Sir,” Clint says softly and turns his head to kiss Phil’s palm; Phil’s eyes go soft and dreamy and Clint can take a lot, but he can’t take that look. He sets his teeth against the webbing between Phil’s thumb and index finger.

Phil’s gaze sharpens and he warns, “Clint.”

Clint replaces his teeth with his lips, an apology he doesn’t really mean on his face.

Phil sighs, “What am I going to do with you?”

“Anything you want?” Clint asks hopefully.

“Right now what I want is to get cleaned up,” his pants and underwear are trapped around his thighs and his exposed cock is sticky with a mix of cum from both of them, though the majority of the mess is across Clint’s stomach. 

Clint pouts, “Do we have to?”

“I don’t want to leave that vase any longer, the water might ruin the carpet.”

“Do you think the roses will be okay?” Clint’s voice is nonchalant but Phil feels a thrill, he hadn’t thought Clint actually cared, his face had revealed nothing when Phil had brought home the flowers, up until now he would have said Clint was indifferent to them but open and vulnerable as he is after a scene Phil can read through his studied neutrality and Phil resolves to keep Clint in fresh flowers for as long as Clint will let him.

“If they aren’t, I’ll get you new ones.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to.”

Clint shrugs and turns his head slightly with a ‘do whatever you want’ expression but Phil can tell Clint’s pleased in spite of himself. 

“Now, help me figure out how to get out of here and once everything’s back in place we can have ice cream.”

~~~

“You’re being ridiculous! Nothing is ever good enough for you!”

“Clint, that’s not true.”

“I’m going out. Don’t wait up.”

“Clint you can’t just—”

But he’s already gone. 

Phil sighs. 

Why does it always seem like two steps forward, one step back?

Phil’s kept his promise to try and be lenient and it seems like Clint can’t help but take advantage of it at every turn. 

He knows they can’t keep on like this but, really, Clint’s been ready for weeks. 

Maybe it’s time to start looking for his real whiphand, one that isn’t terrified of Clint’s independence.

No. 

No, Clint might be ready, but Phil isn’t. 

~~~

Phil lays back against the couch and tries to catch his breath. Clint, the minx, kisses the inside of his thigh and he has to dig into the well of his reserve. He grabs Clint’s hair and drags him up into Phil’s lap, his legs straddling Phil’s, his cock a hard line in his thin running shorts.

“What was that,” Phil growls with a shake of Clint’s head.

Clint moans, his hands tightening on Phil’s shoulders, “A pretty spectacular blow job, if I do say so myself, Sir.”

He’s not wrong but that’s not the point. Phil lets go of Clint’s hair and wraps his fingers around Clint’s neck, his thumb dipping into the hollow of his throat and jingling his SHIELD tag and Phil’s frown comes that much easier. 

If Clint was really his he would probably forgive him but he has to remember Clint _isn’t_ really his and another whiphand wouldn’t tolerate such blatant disrespect. 

“You were supposed to be warming my cock.”

“But wasn’t this so much more fun?”

“You know I’m going to have to punish you.”

“No,” Clint whines, “You liked it, Sir, we both know you liked it, you can taste it,” he presses against Phil’s hand, trying to kiss him, and, God, Phil wants that kiss, but he has to be strong.

He squeezes Clint’s throat, “No. In fact, no kissing until bed.”

Clint whimpers, “Phil,” when is he going to learn that Phil’s punishments always make it not worth it.

“Complain again and you’ll be keeping your mouth open until then.”

Clint shudders and bows his head, “I’m sorry, Sir. Please, I’ll be good.”

Phil sighs, “I wish I could believe that.”

~~~

“They’re on their way up. Go ahead and get into position, baby.”

Clint is barefoot and in neatly pressed black slacks, matching the silk of his French cuffed shirt, unbuttoned at the throat to show off his collar and SHIELD tag. The cuffs are fastened with Phil’s cufflinks and like this Clint can look at them and pretend that his tag has the same engraved star in its concentric circles. 

His corset vest, custom made just for this occasion, a graduation and test all in one, is a blue bordering on violet that brings out his eyes. Only he and Phil know that it matches the mini-boxers Phil had the tailor dye along with the vest, the delicate lace against his freshly shaved skin a constant reminder of Phil’s touch, reinforced by Phil’s cologne which he had dabbed in the hollow of Clint’s throat and just above his cock. Phil had been so careful bathing and shaving him and Clint had let himself positively bask in the illusion of Phil’s love.

He Kneels on his cushion, posture perfect, lips neatly parted, and wrists comfortably at his back where they rest against the laces of his corset. 

Letting Phil lace him in had been a test of all his control and he can’t wait for Phil to unlace him tonight once Hand and Gyrich have left. 

If settling into his submissive mood hadn’t been enough to make him hard against the front of his slacks, picturing his reward for tonight's performance would be. 

“Victoria! You’re looking well, and doesn’t Henry look lovely.”

Phil is in a tailored black suit with a low cut black leather corset vest over a pearlescent white shirt that has barely there pinstriping in a smokey silver blue; it pairs well with the tie that matches Clint’s vest. His single cuffs have cufflinks matching the ones he fastened at Clint’s wrists. 

Victoria’s hair is up in a French twist, her magenta highlights shining against the dark brown of her natural color. She’s wearing a longline black leather bustier over a magenta silk button down with single cuffs as well; her cufflinks are silver etched with black stylized gavels. Her black leather pencil skirt ends just below the knee and has a slit up one side to mid thigh, showing off her thigh high stiletto boots, also in black leather. 

Henry carefully takes off his shoes and socks as Clint tends to Victoria’s boots, and Phil would resent her wearing them if he hadn’t prepared Clint for exactly such a test. Henry’s black slacks are paired with a leather corset vest and a shirt the same magenta as Victoria’s, the cufflinks at his French cuffs and his tag both carrying Victoria’s symbol. He takes one of the clean cloths from the basket by the door and kneels textbook perfect in front of Phil and starts polishing Phil’s already shining shoes.

Clint hides his amusement from Hand, though he is sure Phil senses his silent laughter as Clint polishes what feels like miles of leather. He doesn’t rush and doesn’t dally, being through but efficient as he works, keeping a submissive expression as he does so. 

Henry naturally finishes with Phil’s shoes first, setting aside the cloth and bowing in Obeisance, his nose a strict three inches from Phil’s foot, “Thank you for your hospitality, Sir.”

“You’re welcome, Henry,” Phil bends at the knees and presses two fingers to the back of Henry’s neck, allowing him to sit back up into a classic Kneel. They wait for Clint to finish with Victoria’s boots and once he’s done he executes a Obeisance as perfect as Henry’s with twice the grace and says, “Welcome to our home, Ma’am.”

Victoria looks impressed despite herself as she echoes Phil’s movement and says, “Well done, boy,” as she presses her fingers to the back of Clint’s neck.

Clint returns to a Kneel saying, “Thank you, Ma’am,” and if there’s a shadow of pride on his face, well, even Victoria can’t blame him. 

~~~

“That was perfect, baby. Why can’t you be this well behaved all the time?”

Clint starts loosening Phil’s tie, “Because I’m not boring and you’re not nearly the stick in the mud you pretend to be?”

Phil puts his hands over Clint’s, stopping him, “Clint, I’m serious. You’re obviously capable of being a proper submissive when you want to be. If you just put a little more effort in, I’m sure we’ll have no trouble finding you a permanent whiphand. Victoria even mentioned how far you’ve come and indicated she might be interested,” it breaks his heart to admit it, but it’s true. It’s _been_ true. 

The only thing Phil hasn’t been able to do is get Clint to see how good his submission could be for him if he would just let go of this ridiculous perversion of needing to always maintain some semblance of control. 

Even as far as Clint’s come, in some ways he’s still fighting his submission. 

If Phil can only show Clint how happy he can be when he finally, _fully_ submits, maybe he can convince Clint to take his collar.

Clint takes a step back.

“ _‘Proper_ submissive?’” Clint can’t show how awful the thought of Phil giving him to Hand makes him feel.

“You know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t think I do.”

“You have more control and more grace than any submissive I’ve ever seen, but still you seem to… delight in bratting.”

_‘Delight in bratting?’_

Does Phil have any idea of how ridiculous he sounds right now? 

“So showing any kind of initiative or humor is bratting now?”

“I’m just saying you know how to behave properly and it would be nice if it weren’t solely for special occasions.”

“You don’t want a submissive, Sir, you want a doll.”

“That’s not true, I just want what’s best for you.”

“And I’m too stupid to know what that is, right?”

“That’s not it at all, but submissives need a guiding hand—”

“You know I’ve survived over twenty years on my own, right?”

“Clint, we both know how much you neglected yourself.”

“I was fine before you and I’ll be fine after,” he’ll have to be. Tonight proved that Phil’s training is complete; it’s only time now before he finds Clint another whiphand, “ _Sir.”_

That strikes Phil to the heart, even now Clint has one foot out the door, “I would be remiss in my duties as your whiphand if—”

“Right, let’s not forget about your duty _;_ you care more about what _looks_ right than what _is_ right.”

“Clint, it’s my job to make the right decisions for you.”

“Oh, please, Sir, please,” Clint makes his expression as pleading and needy as possible, a stark departure from what he’s feeling, but then they’ve been having this fight over and over for what seems like forever, He lets his expression return to its glare and says as viciously as possible, “Please, Sir, might I have a speck of free will. _As a treat.”_

“Clint!” Phil shrinks back in horror. 

Clint’s done. He can’t deal with this crap anymore. Clint is always the one who yields; bend it at its weak point often enough and even the strongest metal will break. 

He grabs his helmet from the coat rack and his boots by the door, snarling, “I’m going for a ride. Don’t wait up.”

Clint heads up to the roof, first, grabbing his bag and wondering if he’s coming back. 

He spends an hour just riding, eventually making it up to the viewpoint that gets filled with teenagers on summer nights.

It’s cold enough now that Clint’s the only one here and he regrets leaving his leather jacket behind. He leaves his helmet and bag with his bike and climbs up onto the guardrail, hanging his feet over the side of the drop off and taking in the clear, moonlit night. The metal is cold through the tailored slacks and French underwear Phil had dressed him in just a few hours ago, the vest as tight around him as Phil’s arms after a night of passion and he misses Phil so hard it’s a solid ache surrounding his heart. 

He can’t keep doing this. 

He looks over his shoulder at his bike. 

He has a safe house in Paris that will be nice this time of year. He could drown his sorrows in the City of Light.

He’s done with this whiphand BS but maybe he can find a dominant that will give Clint what he needs instead of what he ‘needs’. 

So why is that every time he tries to picture this hypothetical dominant, all he sees is Phil?

He runs his fingers over one of Phil’s cufflinks. He debates removing them and putting them in his go bag. He can claim to have lost them and then at least he would have a souvenir of sorts. 

Or he could give in. 

Stop fighting and give Phil everything he thinks he wants; but Clint doesn’t think Phil actually wants what he says he wants anymore. 

If Clint were to go full high protocol it would drive Phil up a wall, and then he’d see—

Then he’d see.

He has to get Phil to stop thinking of him as a submissive and thinking about him as a _person_ again; maybe this would finally get through to him where nothing else has and maybe, _maybe_ , Phil will think about keeping him instead of looking for another submissive. 

A perfect submissive. 

Something Clint will never be. 

He goes to his bike and picks up his helmet, looking over the shining lights of the city, the way they reflect against the black ribbon of the river.

One last shot. 

And if he misses, Paris isn’t going anywhere.

~~~

It’s late when he gets home, Phil’s in bed asleep. Clint strips down to his collar and climbs into bed. 

“Clint?” Phil murmurs in sleepy confusion.

Clint pulls Phil into his arms, “Shhhh, I’m here, Phil, go back to sleep.”

Phil hums happily, nuzzling into Clint’s neck.

Clint stares up into the darkness for a bit before reminding himself he needs his sleep, too. Tomorrow is going to be a long day. 


	25. Chapter 25

That morning Clint wakes up early and puts together a breakfast plate for Phil— he doesn’t cook, he knows his limits and setting off the smoke detector this morning isn’t in his plans. 

So, it’s that Greek yogurt crap Phil likes with a side of his homemade almond granola, juice, and coffee. 

He downs a couple protein shakes himself, he’s skipping his morning run today in order to concentrate on PSYOPs. 

He knows the only way he's getting through this is to treat it like a mission.

An extremely high stake mission.

What if he's wrong about this?

Wrong about Phil?

But no. 

No more room for doubt. 

And if he is wrong, better to know that now. 

He times it perfectly and is Offering the tray just as Phil’s alarm goes off.

“Wha— Clint? What’s going on?”

“Breakfast, Sir?” He doesn’t over do it, doesn’t go too neutral in his tone, not yet. He lets there be a thread of humor; obviously it’s breakfast. He knows Phil’s real question is why is Clint serving him breakfast naked but Clint can’t just out and tell him. The only way this is going to work is if he eases Phil into it and then let’s Phil come to his own conclusions. 

He can sense Phil’s confusion as he takes the tray. Clint holds Offering for beat and transitions into a Kneel.

He keeps his gaze lowered but he can feel Phil’s eyeing him suspiciously.

“Sir?” Clint ventures once Phil sets aside his tray.

Finally. Clint’s silent submission has had the hair on the back of Phil’s neck standing up. He knows his boy is up to something and he hides his relief when it seems like Clint isn’t going to draw this out any further. 

“What is it, honey?”

“I apologize for last night. I let my temper get the best of me. I promise, I’ll try harder. I know you're doing your best with me and you only want to help.”

All true. 

Beside the point. But true. 

“Oh, Clint; come here, baby,” Phil reaches down and pulls Clint up until he’s straddling Phil’s lap. He shifts his hands until his fingers get tangled in Clint’s hair. It’s longer than Clint normally lets it get but Phil likes it so he keeps putting off getting it cut. He twists his hands and drags Clint down until he’s flush against Phil’s lightly furred chest and takes his mouth in an aggressive kiss. 

Clint meets him stroke for stroke, bite for bite; hell, this might be their last kiss like this, besides it would be out of character to give in too soon. 

Phil’s cock is hard against Clint’s ass and he grinds down, pulling a moan out of Phil and Phil flips them, releasing Clint’s hair and grabbing his wrists, pinning them to the bed.

Soon. He’ll surrender soon. 

Futz, he’s going to miss this. 

He bites his way across Phil’s jaw then licks the same path, Phil’s morning stubble rough against his tongue. He gets up to Phil’s ear and moans, “Hurt me, Sir. _Please.”_

Phil crosses Clint’s wrists and presses them into the pillows, growling, “Stay.”

He digs into the nightstand drawer and grabs a coil of rope, roughly tying Clint’s wrists together with an effective, if not very pretty, knot. He then secures Clint to the headboard with the same quick and dirty knot. He’s probably going to have to cut Clint out but it’s worth it. 

As much as Phil hates their fights, the make up sex is always incredible. 

~~~

“I just wanted to tell you we’re all behind you.”

“What?”

Lillian has sidled up next to Clint in the cafeteria line where Clint is getting his and Phil’s lunches.

“Sometimes you just have to show your dominant who’s really in control.”

She hip checks him and winks, then goes back to filling her own tray. 

He had started to doubt himself the last couple days. Once or twice he’s caught Phil looking at him with what he would dare call longing but he isn’t sure yet if it’s because Clint is being everything Phil says he wants Clint to be or if it’s because he misses how things were. 

Clint carries the fully loaded tray back to the table Phil is sitting at and goes to his knees, Offering it to Phil. There aren’t as many gasps this time as the first, but there are still a couple and he has to hide a smirk, he knows he makes it look good. 

~~~

“Dr. Morse has been on our radar for well over a year. While many governments have labeled her as an eco-terrorist, the positive impact she's had on the global environment is unparalleled. 

“As most of you know, we were set to take her in Managua when something better came across our path. I’m sure all of you agree, Agent Barton has been an invaluable asset, one we’re all proud to have on our team.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“Did Agent Barton really just call Coulson ‘Sir’? I thought he was just kneeling as a joke or something?” Louis whispers to Duarte.

His whisper is as soft as hers; based on the body language around the room, Clint’s the only one who hears them. “Holy shit that’s right, you’ve been in Caracas the last week; it’s been crazy, Lou!”

“So it’s not just a one time thing? Did he lose a bet or something?”

“My money’s on prank. You know how all-in he can get. I’m still not sure I believe he’s a sub at all.”

“Maybe that’s his point?”

“Nah, if he’s making a point to anyone it’s to Coulson, he’s definitely not in on it.”

~~~

“How’s it going? You sound tired. I don’t like you sounding tired.”

“You worry too much. He’s close to breaking. A day, maybe two. But…”

“But?”

“Tell me this isn’t a huge mistake, Bits?”

“Oh, _rodnoy_ , you were able to tame a half feral teenaged assassin when you were still a child yourself. Phil doesn’t stand a chance.”

“When this is over I want you to meet him.”

There’s silence. 

“And I want him to meet you.”

She scoffs, “When he wises up and becomes your real whiphand we can talk. I’m not letting him see my face until he gets his head out of his ass and offers you his collar.”

“Tash, he might not—”

“He will. Or maybe I’ll meet him anyway.”

“No biting and no explosions, not even tiny ones.”

She sighs, dropping her Black Widow voice, “Fine. I promise, no explosions.”

He takes the little victory. 

~~~

Phil is terrified when Clint walks up to Dr. Morse, slinging his bow over his back but he catches Phil’s eye and signs as if grabbing a horizontal rope towards his right, «Trust me.»

Phil would feel better about trusting him if she hadn’t immediately pressed her gun to his forehead. Everyone turns to get their cue from Phil and he briefly closes his eyes and signals for them to wait, his heart racing. 

God, he hopes Clint knows what he’s doing.

“I see your fear of establishing any meaningful connection with another human being kept you from picking up the phone. You know I’ve been looking to audition for SHIELD since before we broke up.”

“Clint? What does she mean broke up?”

Clint had remained mostly silent during the briefing, _‘A proper submissive speaks only when spoken too.’_ Normally Clint is first in with suggestions or modifications, this time he kept it to the bare minimum, steering Phil towards the more non-lethal options; Birdie’s always been good with proportional response.

Besides, he owed her for that little prank she pulled on him in Paris; he smelled like catacombs for three days. 

“Oh, yeah, did I forget to mention Bobbi’s my ex?”

“I see you’re still conducting business with your typical flair,” Bobbi says, looking around her decimated lair, “You know secret underground laboratories are expensive, right?”

“Speaking of, I love what you’ve done with the place. Well did; that stain’s not coming out. But, really, it’s nice.”

“Oh that’s all Lance. You know me, if it was left to my discretion every surface would be reference tables and equations.”

“Lance? Lance wh— Hunter? You’re dominating Lance Hunter now? The Brit you said begs exactly like me? And you want me to buy that you topping him has never had anything to do with me?”

“Tell the whole world why don’t you!” Bobbi looks pointedly at the SHIELD agents who have their weapons pointed at her and her goons, “And yes, before you ask, _he_ knows how to behave.”

“Oh fuck you, Bobbi, I behave just fine when I want to, just ask— Shit.”

“Oh, God, this has got to be good. Who is it? Who are you getting on your knees for, puppy? Oh, hell no, don’t tell me Drew’s trapped you in her web again?”

“No, no it’s not Jess. I told you after that thing with Penny— and I knew better than to scene with Jess when she’s in a temper but she needed it so bad, but then you remember how fucked up I was after that and I don’t just mean the broken bones. No, we’re friends, but I’m never stepping into her dungeon again.”

“You’re stalling, Clint. Spill,” she says, leaving the gun in place and reaching out to where his collar is peeking out over the top of his tac vest, she lifts it until his tag spills out and she lets out half a gasp, “Oh, puppy, what have you done? After everything with Jess, you swore you’d never give up that much control again, and a collar? A _tag_?”

He bats her hand away. 

“You don’t have a say in what I do with my life, Bobbi, you never have,” Clint regrets the words as a familiar look of hurt from the old wound flashes across her face.

“Okay, this is just getting painful to watch,” Phil says, breaking the spell that had taken the entire team, wrapped up in their own private soap opera starring Clint Barton. 

Phil has to stop it before it goes any further. 

She obviously isn’t going to shoot him, or at least Clint believes it and he’s better at reading people than anyone else Phil’s ever known.

And selfishly, he doesn't want to get anymore glimpses into Clint’s relationship history; what he’s heard has already broken his heart a dozen times, the things his boy has been through in the name of love would crush most people. 

And yet here Clint is again trying to make their relationship survive, even though he’s only submitting to Phil because he has no other option besides walking away entirely; which is really only a choice between a slow death and a fast one, ripping the band aid off and splitting, or this slow descent into madness. 

He can’t keep letting Clint submit to him like he has been this week. He’s been textbook perfect in every way but that— that spark, a… a Clint spark no one else has has gone missing and Phil would trade a lifetime with this robotically perfect Clint for one more second with the Clint from before.

 _That_ Clint has been missing since the night of the perfect dinner party turned worst fight, waking up to Perfect Clint, Real Clint locked away behind a wall of protocol. 

“Dr. Morse, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” Phil says, holstering his gun and approaching carefully, “My name is Phil Coulson and I'd like to talk to you about coming to work for SHIELD. I apologize for the flashy entrance, I hadn’t realized there was a hole in my planning,” he glances over to Clint and while he didn’t exactly expect to see guilt there’s the studied blankness that has become commonplace, like Real Clint just came out to say hi to his ex (they are definitely talking about that later) and now Clint’s put him back in his box and Phil hates it, “And of course we’ll cover the damages. Or, if you like, you could have unlimited access to SHIELD’s resources, including our labs in Atlanta and—”

“Shanghai?”

“—Shanghai.”

“I’m in. I forgive you, puppyface,” she tells Clint as she lowers the gun.

“Now we’re even, Ma’am,” he says with a smirk.

She laughs, “Well come on where’s my hug then, we’re family now, right?”

Clint looks over to Phil for permission. Something Real Clint wouldn’t have even bothered with. Phil looks at Dr. Morse and his jealousy makes him want to deny her but his rational self knows better and he nods. She catches Phil’s eyes as she wraps her arms around Clint and she mouths, «We need to talk.»

Phil swallows and nods and with a final squeeze Dr. Morse releases Clint. 

“Okay, everybody, damage assessment, top to bottom, I want to put an offer on the table for Dr. Morse ASAP. Get to it. Barton you're with me. Dr. Morse, a word in private, if you please?”

The squad disperses, pulling up inventorying apps and cataloging everything damaged in the raid. 

“This way, I have a secret passage to my personal quarters. I’ll put the kettle on.”

“Tea? Really Birdie? You’ve been topping a British dude for what, six months max? And your ‘putting the kettle on?’”

“Longer than that.”

“It can’t be longer than that, Bobbi, we were still together before th— Oh. Oh, I see. Sir, are you sure you need me for this conversation or can I go help with the data collection?”

“Clint, wait—!”

“No, Bobbi, you wait. You don’t get a vote on this one; it’s your call, Sir. Do you want me to stay or can I go?”

“You can go, Clint. Triage the scene, get everyone searching for what they would find the most valuable until we catch everything down to the last paper clip.”

“Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir,” Clint bows to Phil and takes three fluid steps backwards before turning and leaving the room, ignoring Dr. Morse entirely.

“What have you done to him, Phil Coulson? I’m warning you I will have an army at my back if you or SHIELD have harmed a hair on that boy’s head. He’s owed more favors than anyone who’s ever worked the circuit. And the crazy thing is, the more you owe him the more likely he is to help you again. There is no one on this Earth you want to mess with less than Clint Barton, I promise you that.”

“I’m his whiphand. His needs are my needs.”

“Funny, that looked like SHIELD’s symbol on his tag.”

“That’s— we have an arrangement—,” he freezes as she lifts her gun, pointing it at his stomach.

“That boy is so in love with you it hurts. I would shoot you right now if it weren’t so clearly obvious that you feel the same way. Make an honest sub out of him for God’s sake before I put you out of his misery.”

“If he's really in love with me wouldn’t killing me hurt him?”

“You’re already hurting him. At least that way he would learn to move on. Don’t get me wrong, he’d be pissed at me for a good long while, but one of the great things about Clint is his near bottomless capacity of forgiveness for the ones he loves,” she smiles as she goes for the jugular, “You should see the shit he puts up with from Tasha; I’m just threatening to kill you, I’m sure you can imagine what the Black Widow is willing to do to protect the only person her flinty little heart’s capable of loving.”

“The Black— Tasha is the _Widow!?”_

“Oh, puppyface has been keeping secrets, hasn’t he?” She smiles with real amusement, “Well. Be careful what you do with that one, she’s almost as protective of her identity as she is Barton. Almost.”

Phil swallows. Morse’s initial threat had been concerning, finding out that Clint’s sister is the Black Widow is a whole other level of alarming. 

~~~

“Welcome home, Sir.”

“Thank you, baby,” the press of Phil’s fingers sends a thrill of satisfaction through Clint that he lets himself enjoy, in spite of his misgivings. 

Phil’s been distant since the raid on Bobbi’s lair and it’s drawn a curl of unease through Clint. 

“Come sit next to me on the couch,” Phil says, draping his jacket over the back of a kitchen chair and rolling up his sleeves. 

Clint had left his tac vest in his locker at SHIELD, comfortable enough in his sleeveless undershirt and leather motorcycle jacket in spite of the winter chill. He had hung his jacket up at the same time he had removed his boots and socks before Greeting Phil.

Clint Follows him, the perfect three steps and to the left behind Phil that before this week would have thrilled him.

This is already going a little better than Clint had expected. He’s sure Phil’s still going to punish him for how things went with Bobbi— hell, he’s been expecting to be punished all week, Phil knows exactly what he’s been doing; instead Phil has them sit facing each other and takes Clint’s hands in his.

“This has got to stop, Clint.”

“I’m sorry, Sir?” Clint says as innocently as he can, which is surprisingly innocent considering it’s, well, him. 

“You know what I mean. I want things to go back the way they were.”

That’s not entirely the truth but if Phil’s going to risk it all and ask Clint to wear his collar it isn’t going to be while this is still unsettled between them.

Clint looks at him with studied confusion, “But you said—”

“I know what I said. I was wrong. I’m sorry. Please, baby, I’m sorry.”

Clint’s about to give in, there’s that ‘please’ again, his Achilles heel, but something in him can’t do it, “I’m sorry, Sir, I can’t. I can’t go back knowing we’re just going to end up here again.”

“Clint, please, I…,” Phil’s heart breaks at the resoluteness on Clint’s face. He’s decided and there’s nothing Phil can do to change his mind, to prove that Phil’s changed his own mind; he feels gutted. Heartbroken. He can’t ever remember being in this much pain—, “Rubicon.”

It’s out before he even knows he’s going to say it, but once in the air he knows it’s right, “Rubicon, Clint. _Please, rubicon.”_

“Shhh, come here Phil, okay. Okay, I’ll stop,” Clint pulls Phil into his arms and holds him close.

“Rubicon,” Phil whispers into Clint’s neck, clinging to him; he hasn’t heard Clint use his name in a week and he hadn’t realized how much he really missed it until this moment. 

“I’ve got you, Phil, don’t worry, it’s over, but Phil,” Clint says sternly, taking Phil by the shoulders and holding him back so that Clint can look him in the eye, “I never want to have to do this again. It makes me feel cheap to have to manipulate you into treating me like before you knew I was a sub. I’m still the person I was then and if you can’t accept it then we have to end this.”

“I promise, if you promise to tell me when I’m going too far.”

Clint smirks, “Oh trust me, Sir, you’ll know.”

“Oh, God, Clint I was so scared when she had that gun on you. I thought I was going to really lose you.”

“Nah, Birdie wasn’t going to shoot me. Not again. Well, at least not in the head. If she had really wanted to hurt me she would have pulled her batons.”

“You certainly have a way of making friends,” he decides not to mention the Widow just yet. 

“What can I say, I’m a people person.”

“There’s something—,” Phil stands and pulls Clint up with him, then takes a step back, “Normally there’s a lot of— and you would be in Offering but— Hold in, I’m doing this all wrong.”

“Phil?” Clint's voice is sharp in confusion as Phil gets awkwardly to his knees and takes something from his pocket.

He brings his palms together and holds up a small metal— his tag, blue with star inside concentric circles and a single border, what is Phil doing?! 

Did Clint push him into this when all he wanted to do was teach him a lesson? Of course he’s dreamed about it, but never like this. 

Not like this. 

For God’s sake, he pushed Phil until he safeworded, and Clint knows first hand how vulnerable that makes you feel. 

Except… 

Except it was Phil’s left front pocket. 

The pocket Clint has seen him touch a thousand different times in what Clint had thought was a nervous habit. 

A nervous habit that started that first week he had come to live with Phil. 

No, Phil’s had his tag there this whole time, has wanted to collar Clint, has _wanted_ Clint this whole time. 

They’re both idiots. 

“Would you do me the honor—”

“Yes! Yes, of course yes,” Clint says, grabbing Phil’s hands and pulling him up to stand next to Clint. 

“Yes?” Phil says, dazed. 

“Yes,” Clint says and brings Phil’s hands up so he can kiss Phil’s tag reverently before jingling his SHIELD tag and asking, “Help me with this?” 

Phil presses his tag into Clint’s hand and works the SHIELD tag off, tossing it on to the coffee table with a clatter. When he tries to take his tag back Clint holds onto it tightly and Phil has a flash of concern that maybe some part of Clint doesn’t want this but quickly realizes that, no, it’s that Clint is afraid of letting it go and the last ebb of doubt flows out of Phil. He eases his tag out of Clint’s hand and kisses Clint’s palm before fixing his tag in place.

“Oh, Clint.”

“I want to see.”

“Of course, baby, come here.”

Clint starts to Follow him but Phil takes Clint’s hand and pulls him so that they’re walking side by side and they laugh as Phil tries to lead them through the door to the bedroom at the same time, Clint finally giving Phil a little push so he goes through the doorway first, Phil yanking Clint through behind him. 

They wrestle a bit, pushing and pulling; Clint bites Phil’s shoulder through his shirt and Phil moans, pulling roughly on Clint’s hair until he lets his teeth go with a whimper. 

He forces Clint around until his back is against Phil’s chest and he has them facing the bedside mirror. Clint’s eyes are bright and his cheeks are flushed and there’s that Clint spark that Phil’s been missing.

Clint can’t keep his eyes off of Phil’s tag— _Phil’s_. He really is Phil’s now. 

Phil rucks up Clint’s shirt and starts circling both of Clint’s nipples with his fingertips and rumbles next to Clint’s ear, “You have a choice now, baby.”

“Yes, Sir?” Clint asks, his knees feeling weak.

“I can either tie you to the bed and make love to you…” he pinches Clint’s nipples lightly.

Clint moans softly and reaches back to grab Phil’s hips and pull him closer, “Or, Sir?”

Phil uses his darkest voice and tightens his fingers until Clint winces and writhes against him, “Or I can _make_ you submit to me.”

“Oh, God, _Phil!”_ Clint tilts his head back and pushes his ass back against Phil's hard cock.

“But first,” he says in that same voice, wrapping his hand around Clint’s throat, pausing to stroke his fingers over his tag; he's dreamed of seeing his collar around Clint’s neck so often that it hardly seems real, “You’re going to show me how much you want it. Get on your knees for me, sweetheart.”

“Where I belong, Sir?” Clint’s tone is almost as vulnerable as his eyes and the sound of his submission seeps into Phil’s bones and for the first time Phil let’s himself believe in forever.

“No, baby, where you choose to be.”

“Oh, Phil!” Clint turns and pulls Phil into his arms, kissing him for all he’s worth, Phil meeting him stroke for stroke, bite for bite until Clint surrenders, overwhelmed by Phil’s love in all the best ways. 


	26. Chapter 26

“What else could I do? When no one was looking, I put the monkey in my backpack and ran.”

“You? No way,” Clint said, laughing, “You stole a drug lord’s monkey?”

“I couldn’t just leave it there, Bayer was awful to it. The woman had no business owning a goldfish, much less a monkey. We were able to get it rehabbed; it’s in a sanctuary in Costa Rica. I still visit it sometimes. I’m pretty sure it remembers me. What?”

“What ‘what’?”

“What’s that look for?”

“Nothing, just picturing you chasing after a baby monkey.”

That hadn’t been it, but exactly; Clint had been imagining Phil surrounded by monkeys, handing out fruit and getting little monkey hugs and it was heartwarmingly easy to do.

“Not much different than chasing after new recruits,” Phil smirks and knocks his foot into Clint’s ankle.

“Are you comparing me to a baby monkey?”

“Well… if the tail fits.”

Clint gasps and holds up a spoonful of mashed potatoes threateningly. Delicious and makes for a nice improvised weapon, especially since Phil is wearing one of his favorite ties and he knows exactly how deadly Clint’s aim is.

“Don’t you dare,” it’s all Phil can do to keep his expression stern, the last thing his sweet brat needs is encouragement.

Clint looks up from Phil’s tie to his eyes and smiles his intent.

“Clint. Behave.”

Oh, God, there’s that voice, the one that _does_ something to Clint, that makes him want to sit up and beg. 

Literally. 

He raises an mocking eyebrow, as if provoking Phil to this point had been his only goal and that he’s won this round, and eats the potatoes, nearly choking at Phil’s, “Good boy.”

He swallows roughly then stands, “Hey, I got that thing with Sitwell to prep for; see you at the two o’clock briefing?”

“Sure,” Phil says casually, sensing the change in Clint’s energy, “I was thinking Del Monaco’s for dinner?”

“Yeah. Yeah, sounds good,” Clint says and then saunters off not at all like he’s escaping. 

He doesn’t think he fools Phil but it salvages some of his pride. 

~~~

“We’ve only got the one picture of Taskmaster’s face and it’s grainy,” Sitwell says.

Jones makes a gagging noise, “Gross, it doesn’t look that much different from the mask.”

At that Clint’s head comes up, a chill running over him. 

He had thought he had recognized some of the moves from the security footage of the tall assassin/mad man in a white cloak and the skull mask and now he knows why.

They had been his. 

“We need to go now,” Clint says, standing abruptly, gathering up his things, “Now now. This guy is one of the best I’ve ever worked with. Maybe _the_ best. He doesn’t stay in any place long and once he’s gone he’s a ghost. He doesn’t have any predictive patterns to follow and he’s vicious enough to not let anyone get in his way. Not even—,” Clint gestures at the corner image of a burnt out shell of a school where Tony’s last target was; thank God the local authorities had gotten the children out of the way in time, “I should have killed him when I had the chance three years ago; all this, everything he’s done since, that’s on me, and I’m not letting him kill one more innocent.”

Phil looks at Clint in shock. The one thing he’s always been adamant about is that he isn’t a killer, that he never has and never will kill anyone. 

Tony Masters has two qualities that made him unique to anyone Clint has ever met. 

The first is that he’s not just adaptive, it goes beyond that, it’s almost supernatural. Tony’s able to mimic any fighting style he sees as soon as he sees it, some other things, too; anything to do with death or killing. 

Or hurting. 

He never needed a contingency plan because he _was_ the contingency plan, hence the original code name. 

But the second is that whenever he learns a new way to be a better monster, he forgets something else; things that aren’t about combat, about survival. People, places... He often can’t remember what he did the week before. 

It had been exhilarating to fight with him, to work with him, to submit to him. 

Half the time Tony didn’t remember Clint was a sub and when he did remember he would hurt Clint so good that nothing else seemed to matter. 

Nothing until Vienna, and the conservatory. There had been kids then, too, and Clint had stopped him that time, no violin was worth a person’s life, but not before losing a lot of blood and giving Tony the scar across his face leaving his teeth exposed and looking like the mask he now wears; a fair trade for the loss of his ears as far as Clint’s concerned. 

“Barton, what are you talking about? How do you know him?”

“We used to work together.”

“I didn’t know you ever had a partner.”

“Yeah, well, it didn’t stick. Ended with a couple broken bones apiece and him with that face.”

“Jesus. What happened.”

“He made the mistake of thinking that just because I let him top me, he owned me. As you can see, it didn’t end well for him,” there’s a little bit of warning in his tone that hasn’t been there for months but he can’t help it, Tony bringing up old feelings of resentment, “Wheels up in fifteen. Either you clear a ‘jet or I steal one, your call. Anyone who wants in, be on the plane by then.”

“Barton!? Clint, wait!” Phil calls out after him.

~~~

Phil scrambles to put a team together for Clint, coordinating logistics and manpower. They don’t have a handler on sight; this was going to be Sitwell’s op, but he was giving the presentation from the air on his way back from Warsaw.

Phil joins the team at the Quinjet. He isn’t letting Clint go into this without a safety net.

It ends up being a team of eight; the plan they put together on the ‘jet is solid, Clint not wanting to leave anything to chance. Phil will coordinate from the plane; Jones, Singh, Leigh, with Duarte leading Bravo team, Feeney, Louis, and Mata with Clint on Alpha with Clint taking point. 

They end up cornering Tony in Belgrade around two in the morning local; which isn’t as good as it seems as he ends up at an exclusive bank that you wouldn’t even know existed unless you were a multimillionaire, and a nine digit multimillionaire at that.

Or someone who targets multimillionaires.

Clint wonders if Tony is doing this job for himself or someone else. 

It doesn’t matter because he’s got the eight security guards locked in one of the vaults, wired to explode, assuming they don’t die of asphyxiation first. 

Tony never did like to leave witnesses. 

It was one of the other reasons Clint had broken up with him. 

At a certain point logic, violence, and even sex had stopped working to reign Tony in and he had been on Clint’s list ever since. 

Clint should have tried harder to find him, to turn him in, to make sure he was off the streets for good. 

Clint knows just as well as anyone how much a body can survive and keep going. 

He should have seen the link between Contingency disappearing and a new player joining the field, far too skilled to be new at the job. 

“Bravo team, you’ve got the hostages,” Clint says, “Alpha, spread out. And remember, however dangerous you think he is, he’s more so. Be smart.”

They’re sweeping through the 3rd sub basement when there’s a, “Hrk,” followed by a tense, “Louis is down,” from Phil.

Fuck. Clint really liked her. 

Tony’s going to pay.

From there it’s a landslide, Feeney and Mata dropping one after the other and Clint knows he’s being herded into a kill box.

He shouldn’t have said anything at the meeting. Should have walked out, stolen a plane, and done it one his own. 

Now Tony’s killed more people, _good_ people, and their blood is on Clint’s hands.

He had agreed on the plane when Phil said to take Tony alive if at all possible but only because Clint knew it wasn’t possible. 

They’re in a warren of vaults, some type of self-storage units with more security than most small countries. If Tony’s down here he isn’t just looking for a quick score, that could have been taken care of in the vault he locked the employees into with its cases and cases of krugerrands. 

No, he’s here for something specific.

Clint calls out, pitching his voice to echo as much as possible, “We can make a deal,” like he’s scared, like he thinks there’s no way out, adding that submissive tone that used to work so well.

Until it didn’t. 

“What kind of deal?” Tony uses the acoustics, too, but Clint’s advanced SHIELD hearing aids give him an advantage. 

He hopes. 

Tony’s down the second left.

“I can get you intel on SHIELD.”

“You, what, you’d flip? I thought SHIELD bred for loyalty; trained their agents to be their master’s lap dogs.” Now a right. 

“Always been more of a mutt. I switched sides before, I could switch again. All I care about is my bills getting paid. Don’t care much who’s paying them.”

“And why would I pay you when I could just kill you.” Keep him talking. He’s close.

“SHIELD has an R & D lab. Toys that will never see the market. My gift to you.”

“Tempting. How do I know you won’t turn on me like the whore you are?”

Maybe one more hallway. 

“Keep paying me more than the other guys. My loyalty will always be to my bottom line.”

“And how much does your loyalty go for these days?”

“Forty percent of any take.”

Tony laughs, “You’ve got balls, I’ll give you that, mutt. Okay. Put down your weapons and crawl to me. Show me you’re serious. _Submit._ ”

Clint rounds the corner and smashes an elbow into Tony’s face, feeling the mask crack as it nearly breaks his elbow, “Been there done, done that. Not a fan.”

Tony backs up putting a healthy distance between them, “Wait. I remember you. You beg so sweetly with enough motivation. Come with me and I’ll let you live. As my pet.”

“You’ve been a walking dead man long enough, Tony.”

“Tony? Hmm,” he shrugs, “I suppose that’s as good a name as any—,” and he attacks, meeting Clint easily strike for strike as if Clint isn’t even trying and fuck, _fuck,_ Tony’s only gotten better.

Clint recognizes the styles of half a dozen other career criminals; that’s the right hook from Deadpool, and a flip kick from Daredevil, the spinning scissor leg throw is signature Black Widow. Those Clint can keep up with, can match, if barely but then Tony starts mirroring Clint and Clint sees the writing on the wall.

Clint’s out matched and he can tell and, fuck, now Phil’s going to listen to him die. 

No. 

NO.

He can do this. He just has to stop fighting like a SHIELD agent and start fighting like _Hawkeye_. 

Don’t think about Tony’s next move. 

Don’t think about his own next move.

Just _move._

He feels the invisible chains that had been holding him break and then there’s no more thought of Phil, or hostages, or of survival. 

There’s only the target. 

Time blurs and the next thing he’s consciously aware of is Tony, pinned to the ground by Clint’s thighs, his mask gone, scattered in pieces around them along with broken weapons and enough blood that Clint’s surprised either of them is still alive. 

“You’re done, Tony. It’s over.”

Tony’s eyes burn with madness out of his twisted visage and he says, “You think you’ve won, mutt? You think you’ve _saved_ anyone?”

There’s a click and the building shakes as Tony blows the vault.

Clint goes white. 

“Bravo team check in. Bravo team. Duarte—”

“They’re gone, Clint,” Phil says softly.

Tony laughs maniacally as Clint’s panic turns to grief and with a roar he starts punching Tony’s broken face, the man laughing the whole time saying, “You lose, mutt, you lose,” until he stops being able to say anything at all.

“Alive, Clint, alive,” he hears Phil over the comm and he can tell Phil’s been shouting at him for a while, but he doesn’t want to stop, wants to keep smashing Tony’s face until there’s nothing left, until he’s sure Tony will never get up, never be able to hurt anyone, ever again.

But that’s not how SHIELD works, it’s not what his team would have wanted. They were loyal to SHIELD. 

Clint is loyal to SHIELD.

And Clint is not a killer.

~~~

The doctor tells Phil that Clint is still in shock, but is free to go. 

Phil has been arranging a guard for Masters, though according to the surgeons he won’t be conscious anytime soon. By the time he’s awake Sitwell will be here along with a team fully versed in Masters’ background and threat level. 

Phil rushes to Clint’s side, panic and relief flooding him in equal measure. Panic at the thought of losing Clint, relief that he survived. 

And grief, that he had been the only one to do so.

Phil knows Clint’s never lost anyone like this before, and certainly not an entire team he felt responsible for.

Clint’s sitting on the edge of the hospital bed, hair damp and wearing someone’s too tight scrubs, his blood soaked clothes and gear in a plastic sack at his feet that squishes when Phil pushes it out of his way with his foot in order to sit down next to Clint and gently pull his submissive into his arms. 

He’s stiff and unresponsive, his eyes empty and lifeless; Phil lets go, then unable to help himself gently cups Clint’s bandaged chin, “I can’t stand seeing you this way, baby.”

“Then look away,” he says, any trace of emotion stripped away. 

“Tell me what I can do?”

“Punish me, Sir.”

“I can’t do that, Clint. I can’t reinforce that you did something wrong when you didn’t.”

“Please, Sir,” now there’s something there. 

Pain. 

“It wasn’t your fault. These things happen. It’s tragic, yes, but it wasn’t your fault.”

“Please, Phil,” Clint closes his eyes, seeing Lou laughing at one of his jokes, Duarte punching her in the shoulder. Feeney sleepy eyed over her coffee. Leigh bragging about the sub he took home last night when Clint knew for a fact he had spent the night by his sick mother. 

A mother now without a son. 

Because of Clint. 

“I need it.”

Phil’s about to refuse again, Clint’s in a fragile enough state as it is; but he realizes the catharsis might help with Clint’s guilt. With punishment comes forgiveness and this may be the only way Clint will accept it.

“Okay.”

“Forty, with the whip. As deep as you can.”

“Clint, no. If we’re doing this, we do it my way.”

“Please? Please, Sir?”

“Ten and I’m not breaking your skin.”

“Fifteen, deep enough to scar.”

“Fifteen, no broken skin.”

“Fifteen and—”

“Fifteen, no broken skin.”

“I—,” Clint starts to argue then slumps like his strings have been cut, he knows he won’t get more than that, “Thank you, Sir.”

“And I want to get the doctor’s clearance for something that severe. I’d rather not do it here. Can this wait until we get to the safe house? Or would you rather do this at home?” The VMA is the best hospital in Serbia but their dungeon setup is minimal. The safe house should be fully stocked. It won’t have Phil’s personal implements but Phil trusts in their quality. 

Honestly, he would prefer they wait. It’s almost four in the morning, Clint needs rest more than anything, and Phil wants Clint to have the comfort of their home when his punishment is over. He had been hoping to convince Clint to sleep on the ‘jet on their way back to the States.

It will just be him and Clint, after all.

“I’m fine, Sir. I didn’t even break my fingers.”

Phil picks up Clint’s chart and looks it over. He’s right, the x-rays don’t show any breaks, other than some surface cuts and deep bruising, he’s not in too bad of shape, especially considering what Clint had looked like when Phil had gotten to him. 

~~~

Clint falls into a subdued silence that he keeps right up until they get to the safe house and he kicks off his filthy boots and the hospital socks he had worn underneath. He starts to go to his knees and Phil stops him, “You don’t have to—”

“Please, Sir.”

Phil sighs and nods, letting Clint go through the formal Greeting; Clint freezes for a moment once he’s on his knees, then grabs one of the socks to wipe down Phil’s shoes before resting his cheek on the warm Italian leather.

He stays like that long enough that Phil becomes concerned and he asks softly, “Clint?”

Clint’s whole body trembles and he clenches his fists at the small of his back, though it must be painful to do. 

Both hands are bandaged from the first knuckle up to his wrists, three fingers have additional bandages at the second joint. His left arm is wrapped further up to his elbow, courtesy of a shallow defensive wound running its length and his right elbow has three stitches underneath it’s wrapping. 

The back of his borrowed white shirt has ridden up showing a boot print on his lower back and the beginning of mottled bruising radiating outward. 

Clint knows he should say the words, finish the ritual but for the moment all he can think of is how much he wants to be on his knees at Phil’s feet, where he can let whatever ‘Clint’ or ‘Hawkeye’ mean fade away and he can just be a submissive serving his whiphand. 

Phil give him a couple more beats before leaning down to press two fingers gently to the back of Clint’s neck, “Stand for me, baby.”

The movement lacks Clint’s normal grace and if that hadn’t warned Phil the hitch in his breath would have, “You refused the painkillers the doctor prescribed, didn’t you?”

Phil berates himself for having missed it in Clint’s charts but Clint is usually so good about taking care of himself when he’s been injured.

Clint looks down in guilty silence. He hurts down into his bones. 

He deserves it. 

At least he’s alive to feel pain. 

Unlike his team. 

Unlike those poor bastards trapped in the vault, their last moments terrifying.

He remembers their names from the briefing.

That’s all they are. 

Names. 

Not even faces. 

Jovanović.

Petrović.

Johansson.

Nikolić.

Marković.

Đorđević.

Howell.

Milošević.

Dead because of him. 

And those are the easy names. 

Louis.

Duarte.

Leigh. 

Singh.

Feeney. 

Mata.

Even that asshole Jones. 

Some of them had been friends, but even the ones who weren’t were his _team._

He was responsible for them. 

Tony may have pulled the trigger but their blood is on his hands. 

He’s never going to hear Lou’s laughter again, or Mata complain about the cafeteria’s vegan options.

Singh painted in her spare time, flecks of blue and ochre always under her nails. 

Leigh—

“Answer me.”

“No, Sir,” Clint practically whispers.

“You’re taking them now.”

“Please, Sir—”

“Now. No arguing.”

“I—”

“What did I just say, boy?”

Clint bows his head, “No arguing, Sir.”

“Good boy.”

Clint flinches like Phil has struck him across the face, but stays silent. 

Phil cups his cheek, careful of the large square bandage covering up the abrasion on his chin; other than that his face is mercifully unscathed. 

Phil takes it as a win, for whatever that’s worth. 

Phil leans up and presses his lips to Clint’s forehead, “Come sit at the kitchen table and have a couple protein bars. I’ll get your pills.”

Dinner on the plane had been SHIELD’s answer to MREs and while they had been filling that had been hours ago. Phil pulls a pair of Clint’s favorite bars out of his pocket, leads him to the chair with a soft touch of his fingers on the unbruised side of his back, and sets the bars down in front of him. 

He gets a glass of water and a couple of pills; when he turns back to the table Clint’s still standing next to the chair, the wrapped bars sitting where Phil had put them.

Phil sighs and holds the pills out but Clint makes no move to take them. 

“Clint,” saying his name gets no reaction. He holds the pills up to Clint’s mouth and orders, “Take them.”

Clint closes his eyes and turns his head away.

“I’m not going to tell you again,” Phil says in his firmest tone.

Clint shudders and opens his mouth; Phil has him take them with some of the water, Phil holding the glass up to his lips.

“Sit down, sweetheart. Eat.”

Instead of sitting in the chair Phil pulls out Clint collapses to his knees like a star folding in on itself, his head hanging low.

“Clint?” Phil’s voice thick with concern. 

Instead of saying anything, Clint crosses his wrists behind him.

Phil swallows, sits in the chair, and unwraps the first bar. He breaks off a piece and holds it out.

He doesn’t deserve food anymore than he deserved the painkillers Phil made him take but Phil is relentless, refusing to budge an inch. Clint starts to take the bite but in the end he can’t, turning away at the last minute and the piece falls to the floor.

“Clint! You have to eat,” Phil reprimands him and Clint shudders. This. This is what he deserves. 

He bends to take the bite off the floor but before he gets halfway down Phil grabs the back of his collar, jerking him to a halt and he growls, “No.”

Finally.

Finally Phil will tell him what a bad boy he’s been, it won’t be enough; it will never be enough. 

It can’t. 

God, all those people.

“Up, I want you on my lap, baby.”

No! No, he can’t let Phil hold him.

He can’t.

“Now,” Phil says in a hard voice.

It isn’t what he wants. 

He wants Phil to smack him down, hard. To beat him, call him names; treat him like the piece of—

“I won’t tell you again,” rather than give Clint a choice he tugs on his collar and drags Clint into his lap, letting out a quiet sigh of relief when Clint doesn’t fight him, following the pull until he’s in place, his arms around Phil’s waist and a multitude of aches and pains awakening as he bends to put his head on Phil's shoulder, “Now, you’re going to eat every bite or we’ll go to bed and your punishment will wait until the morning.”

Clint whimpers, but instead of turning his face into the crook of Phil’s neck he sits up and opens his mouth, resignatedly letting Phil feed him the rest of the two bars, interspersed with sips of water. 

“Okay, let’s check out the dungeon; of you’re sure—”

“I’m sure, Sir.”

Phil hides his sigh as he helps Clint stand. 

It takes them a couple tries to find the correct room, the apartment is huge, an asset seized from a war profiteer and kept jointly with Serbia’s Security Intelligence Agency.

The dungeon has huge stained glass windows, slivers of which give a stunning view of snow blanketed Belgrade in a rainbow of colors and when the sun rises in an hour or so they’ll bathe the dungeon’s stonework in light and make the room beautiful, but for now, with the lights on, it gives the room a Gothic feel that Phil could do without. 

Instead of a cabinet all of the provided implements are hanging on the rough stone walls, which also have manacles hanging at various heights around the room. 

The floor is a tiled mosaic pattern of looped circles of red and white on a blue background with gold filigree fleurs-de-lys. 

Various bondage devices are spread around, but the focal point is the center of the room, next to a drain the floor is a solid floor to ceiling whipping post made out of a single polished tree trunk, manacles hanging from a pulley secured at the top, blunt spikes with locks at strategic levels where the chain can be secured or that a submissive could use as a handhold. 

For so long Phil has had a distorted view of what makes an ideal submissive, and of how to be an ideal dominant and Clint has torn all that down. What they’ve built together has been stronger and better than anything Phil could have imagined. 

Clint needs him now, needs this and Phil could never deny Clint’s needs. 

“Will you be able to keep upright on your own or would you like me to chain you in place, baby?”

“I’ll… I’ll hold on to the post on my own, Sir.”

“Alright. I’m not making you count, I’m going to keep an even pace but if you need a second or to stop in addition to your safeword you can just let go, okay?”

“Yes, Sir. I don’t have to count and if I need to stop I use my safeword or let go,” he won’t need either and what he really wishes is that he could convince Phil to whip him until he just passes out, but he knows that’s not on the table. 

That’s not something that will ever be on the table. 

“Say it for me now.”

Clint squeezes his eyes shut, of course Phil should know how hard it would be for him to say it, giving him the space to do so now means it will come to him easier if he fails. He whispers, “Upshot.”

“Good boy.”

Clint flinches again at the phrase.

“Stand,” Phil says coming up next to the post, Clint stays in position as Phil carefully undoes the large buttons of his scrubs, grateful to see that none of the bandages have seeped through, the white fabric still pristine. He looks over Clint’s chest, a couple bandages here and there and bruising over his ribs that he knows goes down to the bone. The bruises on Clint’s lower back around the bootprint and across his upper arms and shoulders are worse. 

Phil hangs the shirt from one of the higher spikes on the opposite side from where he has Clint face the post and lets him wrap his arms around the post..

He wants to ask Clint if he’s sure again but he knows that, as much as Clint is hurting, Phil has to trust him to know his own mind. 

But the second he lets go, steps away, or gives his safeword, Phil will be at Clint’s side to give him anything he needs. 

“I’m going to crack the whip a couple times to get a feel for it. If I’m not happy with it, we can discuss options, okay?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Fortunately, or not, depending on your point of view, it’s an exceptionally well made whip; Phil has no excuse not to proceed. 

Those two harmless cracks settle something in Clint, a clawed and fanged sort of thing that has been tearing at his insides and he sighs, almost peacefully; his death grip on the post relaxes and some of the tension flows out of his back and shoulders. 

Phil will take care of him. Phil will give him what he needs. 

What he deserves. 

And it’s fitting, really. 

Fifteen strokes. 

Fifteen names. 

Phil has whipped him before of course, only once for punishment, only once drawing blood. Since then Phil has only shown him pleasure with it, warming him up beforehand and showing him what a whip can do in the hands of a master. 

He wishes he had been able to convince Phil to go deeper, harsher, but he has injuries that will heal slowly enough, and he doesn’t need any more split skin to remind him of his failure. 

He knows he isn’t thinking straight either; he has to trust that in this, Phil knows best. 

And Clint does.

Clint resolves to take his punishment silently. 

Like his team and the innocent guards are silent. 

Phil is too skilled to allow that and while Clint is able to force himself to swallow his screams on the lashes for Jovanović and Petrović, at Johansson he can’t hold it in and by the time he gets up to his team he’s shouting with each one.

Even still he keeps on his feet, holds his position. For his team. 

For Phil. 

For himself. 

… Singh and her paints. Duarte’s smirk. Louis’s laughter.

And then it’s over, oh God, it’s over.

His hands slip from their hold and he’s suddenly on his knees, Phil’s arms around him as he tells Clint, “It’s over. It’s over baby, it’s past. I forgive you. I love you. I’m here, I’ve got you.”

And with a hoarse sob Clint finally, _finally_ lets himself cry. 


	27. Chapter 27

“You got something in the mail.”

“Really?”

It’s a small box with a return address of a law firm in Waverly, Iowa. 

He has a bad feeling about this. 

Joe Allen Freeman?

The name sounds vaguely familiar.

_To the heirs and devisees of the above named estate:_

Someone from his home town willed him a bible? 

There’s a letter from the guy.

_Dear Clint,_

_You probably don’t remember me; I was a friend of your mother’s. She asked me to hold on to this for safe keeping._

_You and your brother were supposed to come live with me and Miriam when Edith passed but a judge ruled that we had ties to ‘dangerous radical elements’ and sent you to St. Ignatius instead. We were barred from contact, though we tried to keep track of you boys._

_When you disappeared just before your thirteenth birthday they came and questioned us and while Miriam worried, I know your mother would have been proud of you for striking out on your own and forging your own destiny._

_Wherever you are, you’re probably old enough to see this now. The doctors say I don’t have much time left, but once I’m gone, I don’t think anyone will care what a bunch of old Fronters got up to back in the day._

_I hope this finds you in good health and living your best life._

_Uncle Joe Allen_

Why would his mom want him to have this? He never saw her with it and they had never been a church family. 

Hell, being sent to a Catholic orphanage had kind of come out of left field. 

He holds it up to the light and is able to make out gold flakes in the faint indentation on the lower right corner of the pebbled black faux leather of the front cover, in Mom’s elegant handwriting, ‘ _For on Francis’._ It takes him a second to realize it’s his name, the ‘Clint’ portion worn away by his mother’s touch.

He unzips the casing and it turns out it’s not a bible at all, it’s a journal.

_November 5th, 1992_

_Hello baby,_

_I wonder, as you read this, what you’ll think of me, of all that I’ve accomplished? The world you live in must be so different and I’m blessed to see you grow up in it._

_I hope you're a sub._

_That’s awful, isn’t it. To wish this on someone._

_But it will be different for you, my love._

_Your brother is only two and I can tell he’s going to be a dom someday._

_A mother always knows._

_He’s so much like your dad that he frightens me._

_Not that your dad is a bad whiphand, not really._

_He has a bit of a temper but what dom doesn’t?_

_When we met at that Submissives’ Rally in ‘90 Harry was so perfect, it was a dream come true, a strong sensitive dominant who believed in the cause._

_I know now that most of that was a front, something he put on for me, but still, it’s nice to be wanted that much._

_Don’t ever take what a dominant says at face value, they’ll say anything to get their leash around your neck._

_Joe Allen says that Addie thinks we’re close on the Equal Pay Act this time, that we really have a chance._

_Once it passes so many doors will open for submissives._

_Just think of it, love, an equal place in the workforce, not being beholden to a dom and their paycheck for our survival._

_There’s an NCLF meeting tonight, I’ve told your dad it’s a knitting circle and that Joe Allen’s whiphand, Miriam will be there to supervise. He doesn’t need to know that Miriam locks herself away in her workshop so that we can ‘gossip’ in peace._

_It’s my turn to stand lookout, but Joe Allen will catch me up on anything I might miss._

_It’s such an exciting time to be alive._

It’s is mother’s handwriting, but he can hardly believe they’re her words.

He flips to another page.

_December 25th, 1992_

_Merry Christmas, baby!_

_Your dad got your big brother a tricycle— as if that boy didn’t terrorize the neighborhood enough all ready. I can’t wait for the terrible twos to be over._

_You, like Barney, have been causing your own form of mischief. I wasn’t anywhere near this nauseous with your brother._

_I’m taking that as a good sign._

_Your dad doesn’t like me going to the ‘knitting circles’ anymore, he says in my condition the best thing for me is to stay in subspace as much as possible, and he’s not wrong, when he brings me down everything else seems so far away._

_Sometimes I think it’s the only time I have any peace._

_But, I let him know the other subs are helping me make your clothes and remind him how much every little bit helps. His father never had any trouble making ends meet with the butcher shop but I don’t think Grandpa Barton ever drank like your dad likes to, at least not that your Grandma Barton ever mentioned before she passed._

_Your Grandma was a proud woman though. I think that’s where Harry gets it from, if there had been any problems she would have kept them in the family and I’m not sure she ever warmed up to me as family._

_Growing up at St. Ignatius meant I never really knew my family._

_I won’t ever let something like that happen to you, my love._

_It sounds like the boys are back from their trip around the block, time to hide this, I’ll try to write more soon, you need to know what’s been happening._

The next couple entries talk about her secret work with the New Collarless Liberation Front, and he’s shocked at how different this Edith Barton is from the downtrodden submissive he knew.

Something must have happened to change that, but what?

His eyes catch at the date of one of the next entries. 

_June 18th, 1993_

_It passed, Clint! It passed. I’m so excited! I’ve already written Joe Allen’s speech, well, two speeches, but we don’t need the other one now, IT PASSED!_

_Stop kicking I know you’re excited, too, you_

_It’s happening now, you aren’t supposed to be here for another two weeks but I guess you want to see what all the excitement is about._

_See you soon, my love._

_June 30th, 1993_

_Hello, beautiful. We’ve been home a little over a week and I finally have the time to write you again._

_You are the most perfect angel when you sleep, like you are now._

_You look like your brother when he was born, both of my boys bald as an egg with the deepest bluest eyes I’ve ever seen._

_Your dad’s eyes._

_He’s a good dom, Clint, sometimes I forget that. He closed up the shop as soon as I called and came straight to the hospital and stayed by my side all through your labor._

_He’s sleeping in the other room, he’s been so tired working at the shop himself._

He skips ahead skimming here and there, seeing his mother get subjugated further and further as she becomes more and more radical. 

She puts proof to the lie that all a submissive needs is a dominant to guide them and shows in a multitude of ways that the real heroes of the movement are the ones whose names never make headlines, who set safe houses and donation chains that get help to those who need it most, those who work behind the scenes to get laws passed and centers built; real, lasting change. 

Several times she writes about friends and contacts urging her to leave but she felt her work in Waverly was too important and the risk of losing custody of her children too great.

The two great loves of her life, her children and her cause, would become her undoing. 

_April 19th, 1998_

His eye catches on the entry, there’s a gap between it and the last one, and the writing is different with this one and the next few weeks afterwards. Clint can tell it was when she was writing with her left hand; she was ambidextrous like him, so the cast didn’t affect her writing too much. It still fills him with the ache of old guilt when he sees it. 

_Hello my angel,_

_I’m so happy to be back home with my boys._

_I’ve asked Joe Allen to come over for coffee in the mornings after Harry goes to work; he can keep me up to date and he’s a better speaker than I am anyway. And even if it’s his voice, it’s still my words that bring more to the cause every day._

_You’ll be starting school this year, and once you do I’ll be back at the shop full time, but if we get in the habit now I should have a few minutes with him in the mornings before packing you boys off to school._

_I was so terrified when your dad tried to come after you boys with that cigarette, I knew he would hurt me for getting between you, I just never thought he would make you boys help. I’m so, so sorry he did that to you baby, and I promise, I’ll be more careful going forward._

Oh, God. 

He wipes the back of his arm across his eyes, wicking away his tears. 

Everything she did, everything she put up with was to protect him.

He flips to the end. 

_August 23rd, 2001_

No. Oh, no. He knows that date. Knows it better than any other, and he doesn’t want to read this, but he has to, has to know what she was thinking that last day when his dad had dragged her to the liquor store and never came back, having swerved into a lamppost and taking her away permanently.

_Hello my angel._

_If all goes according to plan, we’ll be free in a couple hours._

_Your dad is home soon and I’ve prepared the whisky like Joe Allen showed me. They’ll find traces of it when they run his blood work but, considering the charges last year, they’ll have no reason to suspect me._

_I know it’s dangerous putting this in writing but there’s always a chance this goes wrong, and if it does, I want you to have the truth, someday._

_It’s always worth fighting back, baby._

_Always._

_You’re DA came back today and I’m so proud of you my love. I knew you were smart enough to find your brother's old reports and use them. You’ve fooled those bastards, and now no one is going to be able to hold you back._

_Change,_ Revolution, _is inevitable, I always thought that I would be at the forefront of that change but now I know it’s you, Clint, your generation. You’re going to be able to forge your own path, make your own destiny._

_Someday, you won’t have to hide your submissiveness, but rather wear it as a badge of honor, of pride. You’ll have the life you want on your terms, and no one will be able to stop you._

_I’m giving this to Joe Allen for safekeeping. He can either give it back to me when we know I’m in the clear, or pass it on to you when you’re ready just in case something happens to me._

_If I end up in jail I want you to know that I love you no matter what, Clint. You will always be my angel._

She had fought his father that night. Tried to convince him he didn’t need to go out for anymore beer, that he had finished the whiskey and was in no shape to drive, but he had insisted on going to the liquor store and on her going with him, saying that Clint and Barney would be okay on their own for the twenty minutes they’d be gone, that he didn’t trust her enough to leave her alone with his boys. 

Clint had tried to get in between them, he remembers, and always felt like a failure for letting Barney hold him back, for not being able to protect her that night. 

Maybe he’s more like his mom than he thought. 

And maybe that’s not a bad thing. 


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sign I use for BABY is usually more directly translated as SWEETHEART, but ASL is more about signing concepts and this sign is the closest to my intent. I’ve seen it used for SWEETHEART, DARLING, BABY, MY LOVE, MY HEART, and so on.
> 
> Technically the sign I’ve used for BRAT here is more directly translated as MISCHIEVOUS, I couldn’t find a reliable source for BRAT, especially not in this context.

“Ready?”

“Ready, Sir.”

“And if you need to safeword?”

Clint rolls his eyes but before he can snark an answer Phil’s hand is warm and rough and around his throat, Phil’s tag with its etched circles and star jingling at the abrupt movement, and Clint whimpers, “Sorry, Sir. If I let go of the headboard it’s over, Sir.”

“Not necessarily over, baby,” Phil says, his thumb playing with his tag, “We stop and reassess. If you just need a moment or you don’t mean to let go then you can get back in position; if you need more time or your ears back or something’s wrong then we get you what you need.”

“I—,” Clint breaks off with a moan as Phil gently squeezes, not cutting off his air, not yet, but the sense that he _could_ — not only that he could but that that Clint would _let_ him, has Clint getting harder faster than he wants; this is already going to be difficult enough but he should have realized Phil wouldn’t go easy on him, “Yes, Sir. Can I— Fu—,” he barely keeps from swearing; he fists his hands into the sheets, “Mmph, please can we start now? Please, Sir.”

Phil smiles, “Good boy,” Clint shivers, “Do you want to, or…?” He brushes his fingers across Clint’s left ear.

“You,” Clint whispers, “Please, Sir.”

Oh, futz, they’re doing this, this is really happening. He starts to pant as Phil slowly removes his hearing aid and half the world goes silent.

“Clint?” Phil asks, concerned with how still Clint is, his whole body tense, his eyes squeezed shut, “We don’t have to do this part.”

“No,” he grits out, “No, I promised.”

There’s no reason for this to be harder than the last time they pushed one of Clint’s limits, balls bound in a humbler as he crawled for Phil, and if that hadn’t broken him this certainly won’t. 

He can tell even with his eyes shut that Phil is giving him the same look now that he had then, so full of love and understanding that it could break Clint all on its own if he dared let himself see it; the look that says all Clint needs to do is say the word ( _upshot,_ it lingers on his tongue) and Phil will gather Clint in his arms, hold him close, and call Clint his good boy, telling him how proud Phil is of him for making it this far.

“It’s okay if you aren’t ready, baby,” Phil says and this time there’s no mistaking Phil’s hand at his throat as anything more than a caress. He strokes across Clint’s bare shoulder and down his arm, repeating the motion as Clint relaxes.

Clint opens his eyes and studies Phil’s face and it doesn’t break him. 

It makes him whole. 

He deliberately reaches up and removes his right ear, bringing his other hand up to hold it out on both palms after pressing a brief kiss to the warm purple plastic housing. 

Phil is gentle as he takes the BTE and sets it on the nightstand then takes Clint’s hands and kisses each palm. Clint gives him a tentative smile, his dimple winking to life, and Phil presses a kiss there as well. He pushes Clint back and then arranges his naked sub to his satisfaction, Spread Back, his arms slightly bent at the elbow, stretched just enough to show his freshly shaved pits, as smooth as his groin and legs, his fingers wrapped loosely around one of the hand carved wooden bars that make up the headboard of Phil’s four poster bed frame. 

Clint watches as Phil shakes his head in mock regret, his finger stroking up Clint’s semi hard cock, making it even harder, Clint’s temporary fear no match for his overwhelming lust.

Phil reaches for the bowl with the soft cloths resting under a sealed bag of ice and Clint begs, hoping he has his volume right, “Please, Sir, just give me a second,” whether he’s too quiet or Phil’s just ignoring him he can’t be sure and he thinks he raises his voice as Phil grabs one of the cloths, “You don’t need to— fuuuu-mmph, please, please, no, please, Sir,” he begs, but doesn’t let go of the headboard as Phil presses the cold cloth to Clint’s cock and Clint yelps, trying to pull away but having nowhere to go.

God, Clint is beautiful like this, hurting and begging for Phil; his words and whimpers pour out of him naturally when he doesn’t have to listen to himself and Phil’s own erection rises even as Clint’s abates. 

Soft again, Phil slips first one of Clint’s balls, and then the other through the largest ring of the custom made gates of hell before pushing the soft tip and then the rest of Clint’s cock through the carefully lubed ring. Once that’s in place the remaining rings slide on easily. 

Phil lightly strokes his hand up and down Clint’s encased shaft, knowing the barely there pressure is slowly driving Clint mad by his broken whimpers. He shows mercy, of a sort, scratching his nails across the delicate skin that shows between the metal rings and Clint gives a full throated cry as his hips thrust up into the pain, “Oh, please, Sir, like that.”

It’s spoiling his boy, but Phil can’t help himself, scratching Clint’s cock again, moaning himself at the unfettered sound Clint makes. 

Clint’s hard enough now that the gates will stay in place and Phil hooks the leash on to the loose ring hanging just past the tip of Clint’s cock and pulls until Clint’s cock is stretched up towards his chin, leaving his balls fully exposed within the tight confines of the ring.

Clint’s been so good about keeping his lips parted since Phil first told him to strip and keep his mouth open, and the tip of his tongue darts out to taste the leather before taking the section Phil holds up between his teeth. He closes his eyes and his world narrows to the sensation of his cock being bound, pulled taut, and the taste of leather filling his awareness. 

It means he doesn’t see it coming when Phil brings the belt down on his balls and he barely bites back his scream of shock though it really wasn’t that painful. At least he didn’t bite through the leather, though it will be permanently wearing Clint’s teeth marks.

He moans around the makeshift gag and then tilts his hips to give Phil better access to his balls. 

Proving that the first strike had merely been a warning, Phil smiles cruelly before really showing Clint what he can do with a belt. 

He lifts Clint’s right leg by the ankle, kisses the side of his calf, and then brings the folded belt down sharply, striking Clint in the same spot as his kiss. 

Clint shouts around the leash and Phil makes out a muffled, “Fuck— Futz. God, please Sir, more, _more!”_

Phil kisses and slaps his way up to Clint’s knee, then his thigh, before switching sides and striking a path down the inside of his left thigh and then calf before moving on to his real targets.

By the time Phil’s ready for the next phase Clint is a sweating, quivering mess; Phil can almost make out the repeated litany of, “Please, Sir,” that makes its way past the leather and he isn’t sure if Clint is begging for more or begging him to stop. 

He doesn’t think Clint knows either. 

Clint balls, the inside of his thighs, and the glimpses of his cock through the gates’ rings are bright red and Phil knows he’s timed it so that Clint will only be pleasantly sore later, and all the more likely to beg Phil to do this again but to make it _really_ hurt next time. 

Phil grabs another cold cloth and Clint shakes his head ‘no’ as violently as he can with the end of the leash in his mouth, not that that stops Phil from pressing it against his tortured cock and balls and at first, _fuck,_ it feels so good but that only lasts a second before it becomes uncomfortable and he tries to squirm away. 

Once he’s soft enough, Phil takes the leash from Clint’s mouth and slips the gates off of him and Clint knows this is all only going to get harder from here. 

He gasps as Phil’s hot mouth closes around his cock and he whimpers, “Phil— Sir, please!”

Phil nips at Clint’s aching balls with sharp teeth in reprimand for using his name, though secretly he loves it, loves pushing Clint until all he is all sensation and reaction, no longer being the submissive he _thinks_ Phil wants, rather, by letting the artifice drop away, becoming the submissive of Phil’s dreams. As good as it feels to hear Clint call him ‘Sir’ when he’s deep in his submission like this, it’s a million times better when Clint forgets and uses his name. 

“Sir, Sir, Sir, please, Sir, I’m sorry, more please? I’ll be good, I’ll be good!”

Phil soothes away the bite with a sucking kiss and then pulls one of Clint’s balls fully into his mouth, working the smooth skin with his tongue then switching to the other one, moving back and forth until Clint is wordless again before sucking Clint’s cock deep into his throat.

“Ohhhhhh, God, _please!”_ Clint begs and Phil hears the headboard squeak as Clint’s hands twist against the wood. 

Phil pulls back with one last long suck, enjoying the satisfying ‘pop’ as his mouth leaves the tip of Clint’s cock. 

He holds up his crossed fingers and wiggling them side to side before placing the flats of his fists together over his heart and pumping his thumbs up and down, «Ready, baby?»

“Ready, I’m so ready, Sir. I’ll be good, please, I’ll be good, I won’t cum until you say, I promise, please, Sir?”

Phil smiles and touches his lips with his right fingers before bringing the flat of his hand down until the back of it is touching the fingers of his flat palm up left hand, then brings his right hand up to his forehead and touches all four fingers to his thumb, «Good boy.»

“OhhhhhHHHHHHHmmm, thank you, Sir,” Clint moans, his whole body rolling in pleasure, the words so, _so_ much better signed than spoken; here, in this moment, in the depths of his submission to Phil they bring no pain, no shame, only pride and love.

Phil stands and strips off his shirt, pants and underwear, and Clint moans again when Phil reaches behind himself and presses two fingers into his hole, making sure his earlier prep has held, that he’s still loose and slick. He’s used enough lube that his fingers come back shining and instead of wiping them off on a cloth he wraps those fingers around Clint’s cock and strokes him once, then twice. 

He gets on his knees, straddling Clint’s hips and then inches forward until he can press the tip of Clint’s leaking cock against his wet hole. 

Clint holds his breath and bites his lip as Phil sinks down on his cock and it’s better than anything, better than the pain, better than binding himself to Phil’s will, than Phil’s hands holding him in place, better than that ‘Good boy’— no. Not better than that. 

The feeling of Phil around his cock is amazing, but seeing him sign that, knowing he learned it just for Clint, that he means it, that gives him _life._

Phil braces himself against Clint’s chest and starts riding him, the words falling from his lips and he knows Clint catches most of them, or at least the intent behind them, from the way his eyes impossibly darken as he thrusts up to meet Phil, “So good, Clint, such a good boy, _mine_ , you’re mine, Clint, I’m never letting you go. Oh, Clint, God you’re perfect, you feel so good inside me, fuck.”

Seeing the profanity on Phil’s lips nearly undoes Clint and he has to let go for a second, Phil immediately stills, a concerned look on his face.

Clint makes a circle with his right thumb and fingers and then a peace sign with his thumb in the vee, then he makes a hook with his index finger and ‘nods’ it towards Phil twice followed by holding the finger up straight, then hooking it again and tapping his right shoulder, «I’m okay, I just need a second, Sir.»

Phil doesn’t move, and it’s actually kind of nice to sit like this, Clint deep inside him as they catch their breath. Phil had been close to cumming himself, but seeing this, seeing Clint ask for something he needs and being able to grant it satisfies some deeper part of him. He smiles and signs, «Okay, baby,» 

Clint moans and turns his head to the side and down, closing his eyes, overwhelmed with all he’s feeling.

Phil draws him back with a fingertip on his chin and a questioning look. 

Clint shakes him off and takes Phil’s hand in both of his, kissing Phil’s palm, then letting go and getting a good grip on the head board. He licks his lips and then opens his mouth, signaling to Phil that he’s ready to keep going. 

Phil groans and bends down to take Clint’s mouth in a fervent kiss as he starts to rock his hips and how could he have forgotten how fucking _good_ this feels in just the few seconds they had paused. He pinches and twists Clint’s nipples until he’s crying into Phil’s mouth, “Phil! Sir! I’m going to cum, I’m going to— I can’t— _Please!”_

Phil leans back, releasing Clint’s mouth and nipples at the same time and holds his hands palm up, wiggling his fingers, «Wait.»

“Please, _please_ , Sir!” 

Clint’s sweet begging, the way he says ‘Sir’ striking into the heart of him like it always does when it’s full of Clint’s submission, nearly undoes Phil but he keeps pushing them, «Wait.»

“I— Sir! Phil—”

«Wait,» and just as he sees Clint’s hands loosen on the headboard he spreads out his pinkies and thumbs, curling in the middle three fingers of each hand and bringing the backs of them down forcefully as he starts to cum, «Now!»

Clint’s hands come down in a bruising grip on Phil’s hips as he follows Phil over the edge, his cum filling Phil’s ass as Phil’s cum stripes across Clint’s chest and he shout’s Phil’s name, _“Phil!”_

When Clint is aware of more than his own singing pleasure, he still has his fingers digging into Phil’s hips but Phil doesn’t seem angry or disappointed, he looks as blissed out as Clint feels as he rubs his cum into Clint’s skin as if wanting to leave a deeper mark, as if he could be anymore entwined in Clint’s soul than he already is. 

Clint loosens his grip but Phil stops what he’s doing and grabs Clint’s wrists, holding them in place for a beat as he smiles down at Clint, then brings them up and kisses the inside of first the right then the left, before leaning down and pinning them over Clint’s head as he captures Clint’s soft mouth in a sweet, drugging kiss.

Phil squeezes his ass around Clint’s soft cock and Clint gasps into Phil’s mouth, so over sensitive it’s painful and, God, does he love this man. 

Phil kisses Clint, still squeezing Clint’s cock with his ass until Clint’s whimpers become a keening whine. He releases Clint’s wrists Clint’s whine breaks off with a growl of protest, Phil sits back up and Clint tries to follow him, stealing one last kiss before Phil presses down on Clint’s chest with his left hand and signs with his right, pinky and thumb extended, middle fingers curled in, hand palm down and then pushing his hand down forcefully, «Stay.»

Clint rests back and sulks for a fraction of a second before crossing his wrists over his head and looking up at Phil through his lashes as he bites his lip and then opens his mouth again for Phil.

Phil huffs a laugh and gives a mischievous grin as he lifts his hand so that his thumb is at the top right side of his head, his last two fingers curled in completely, his first two in a sort of clawed vee that almost looks like he’s scratching the air, «Brat.»

“Your brat?” 

Clint tries to tease but he knows it comes out more earnest than he intends because Phil’s eyes soften and he presses his hand over his heart and then signs slower as he nods, «My brat,» followed by, «My good, _good_ boy,» Clint moans and shivers as the pleasure he gets from seeing those signs ripples over him, «Now _stay.»_

“Yes, Sir,” and even after all this time, he gets a little thrill at calling Phil ‘Sir’.

Phil gets them cleaned up and under the covers with the lights out, though it takes longer than it otherwise might as he keeps stopping to kiss Clint, irresistibly drawn back to Clint’s mouth time and time again. 

Phil spoons up behind Clint and wraps his arm around him and squeezes Clint in a hug, and Clint feels the vibrations by his ear as Phil says something. 

Clint smiles and says, “Love you, too,” and drifts off to sleep, secure in Phil’s arms.

**Author's Note:**

> I saw a beggar leaning on his wooden crutch  
> He said to me, "You must not ask for so much."  
> And a pretty woman leaning in her darkened door  
> She cried to me, "Hey, why not ask for more?"
> 
> Oh, like a bird on the wire  
> Like a drunk in a midnight choir  
> I have tried in my way to be free
> 
> — L. Cohen: Bird on the Wire
> 
> I can be found at:  
> Tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/paraprosdokia  
> Dreamwidth: https://paraprosdokia.dreamwidth.org  
> My asks are always open.


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